Scars
by I-Dont-Ship-I-Yacht
Summary: Backstory of Lorraine's life before Waterloo Road.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay I wrote this because my friend asked me to. I rated it T because I like swearing and sex. That's all. I strongly advise that no-one reads this cos it's a bit rubbish.**

At night, the air in the city smells of hot, burning life. And he opens the black taxi cab door for me, like a gentleman. That's why I like him. He's a gentleman, an English boy, through and through. And he holds out his hand, but I don't take it. I avert my eyes and get out of the car. My heels dangerously high and loud against the wet stone pavement. Midnight black Alexander McQueen with gracefully curving heels. I try not to wobble, because I don't want him to hold his hand out to me again. Together, we walk to the front steps of my four story London townhouse, looming above us, all off-white stone and creamish wrought iron balconies. I turn away from him, one foot already on the step above.

"Lorraine?" He says. I don't like the way he says my name, his public school accent twisting my own name into something I barely recognise. I can't remember if he was Eton or Harrow, but either way, he was born and bred to do this. Born to be Cambridge educated and drive a Jaguar to his job in The City, and go shooting on his daddy's estate at the weekends.

"Yeah?" My own accent is something more than just scummy in comparison. But I turn around to look at him confidently, because I'm his equal. And I'm smiling a little.

"Goodnight, and thank you for tonight" he says.

"Yeah, it's been great" I lie. And then, he's leaning forwards a little. And I kiss him, because he wants me to, and because I don't want to hurt him. We kiss, quickly. My eyes closed. Trying to clear my wine-blurred mind. Trying to think straight. And then I'm pulling away and his eyes are flickering open. I suddenly notice that his eyelashes are very pale. And I can see it in his eyes, the way he looks at me. He's begging me, in his polite, quiet, English way, to spend the night with him. How long have we been dating now? Three weeks? And I've always just kissed him goodnight and left him on the doorstep. For a fraction of a second, I think about inviting him in. But I know I won't. "I better go, I've got an early call from my people in Beijing tomorrow, see you" I murmur. I lie, because lying is easy. And I turn away, reaching for my keys, and unlocking the door, painted an immaculate glossy black. I open the door a crack, leaning against it. The marble hallway is as dark as the midnight streets, and maybe a little colder. And I'm turning and digging my nails into my palms, desperately stopping that smile from slipping from my lips. And then, with a huge effort, I smile at him one last time.

"Night-" he says. Silently, I close the door behind myself.

* * *

I stand on my very tip toes. My feet bare, as though I were a child again. And I'm wobbling a little. Drunk and tied and drunk. And tired. I've been drinking fine, expensive red wine for hours. Until I feel a little sick, vague waves of nausea washing over me. I can taste his breath, as though it's sticking to my tongue, to the roof of my mouth. Mixing with the sickly sweet red wine, oddly foreign. And now I'm home alone, and the balls of my feet burn onto the cold icy tiles. I twist the tap. Cold metal, my cool palm. And I sit on the white tiled floor, listening to the hot water slapping onto the cold ceramic bathtub. And I let the water run deep. Until the air is thick with steam and I can taste hot water vapour in my lungs, clogging up my nose. Making my skin wriggle into goosebumps. And I slowly get undressed. Wriggling, muscles in my shoulders burning as I try to unzip my dress. Skin-tight Hervé Léger is not designed for girls who go home alone. But I unzip it myself, in the end. And I pull it down, over my hips. Tiny black dress falling to the floor. Leaving me in my underwear. I don't bother hanging it up, I just leave it on the tiles, looking oddly forlorn. Folds of clingy black fabric, still smelling of my Viktor and Rolf perfume. Sharp. I glance up, and for an instant I catch sight of myself in the full length mirror on the other side of the room. But I quickly avert my eyes and start to run a little cold water into the bath. Watching the new, clearer, colder water mix with the hot. Swirling. And then I unclasp my bra. And my necklace, my chest feeling slightly too light without it. As though I can suddenly breathe again. I hold it in the palm of my hand for an instant, looking down at it. A heavy, silver Cartier panther. Fifteen thousand pounds in the cool palm of my hand. Blue sapphire eyes, ice-like diamonds making up the body of the cat, glittering in the hot light. I sigh, and remember that he bought it for me. His face, eager to please, doting, flickering in front of my vision for a fraction of a second, blurred. By time or by the alcohol I'd drunk. I don't know. But I know that I haven't drunk enough, I didn't invite him in because, deep down, I knew that I wasn't drunk enough to sleep with him. What does that make me? Cold, incapable of love? Maybe I'm as stone cold as the tiles I'm standing on. Colder than the diamond panther in my palm. Have I always been incapable of feeling what I'm supposed to feel? As though something is broken inside me. Faulty, damaged goods.

And I leave the necklace on the side of the sink. Cold ceramic against cold diamonds under my cold skin. I remind myself to breathe normally. I could tie up my hair. But I don't bother, I just run my fingers loosely through my carefully sculptured, platinum blonde curls. Tossing it all back, over my shoulders. I reach into the bath with the very tips of my fingers. Testing the water. I wriggle out of my underwear. And get into the bath.

The water feels oddly thick, as though it were deliciously hot treacle. Enveloping my body under the slightly cloudy surface. I lean back, letting the water lap at my skin. Letting the ends of my hair tumble into the water, spreading out like hot blonde clouds. I raise a wet hand, and sweep it out of my face. Drops of hot water, one on my lips, and another on my cheek, and dozen in my hair. Maybe smudging at my makeup a little. Maybe I should've taken it off before I got in the bath, but I don't care. The roots of my hair darker now, glossy with sweat. Because the water is a little too hot. I sigh, and I sink a fraction lower into the water. And I close my eyes.

* * *

And suddenly, I'm sixteen again. And my best friend, she's beautiful. All straight dark hair framing her thin face, and her hazel eyes are a little too big. And she's got long, dark eyelashes and pale skin. And a quick smile and a careless laugh. One or two, impossibly pale, freckles dotting across her nose. Nail varnish a little chipped, mascara a little smudged, her hair not quite immaculate. I think her pale lipstick is a little smudged too. I don't know. I know the exact shade of lipstick she's wearing though, because I was with her when she chose it. Carefully drawing little lines on the back of her hand, testing the colours before slipping it into her handbag. I can remember how my heart pounded, how my palms sweated. How I was convinced we'd get caught. But we didn't, of course, girls like her don't get caught. Not ever.

"Lo? Are you even listening to me?"

"I...yeah" I take the cigarette that Evie is holding out to me. Thin, hand rolled. I watch her as she flicks carelessly at her cheap plastic lighter with her thumb. Lighting up. And then she passes it to me. Her hazel eyes don't burn into mine anyone, she doesn't need to silently dare me to light the cigarette and take a long drag. Now, she knows that I'll smoke it. No hesitation, no suppressed coughs or burning eyes. And right now, I need the lulling calm of a nicotine hit. So I light up. Silently wishing that she would light it for me, just like she used to. And I'm holding the cigarette a little too tightly between my trembling lips, flicking at the lighter. Bursting into flame. And I take a drag, passing her lighter back to her with an awkward jerk of my head. Feeling the burning smoke, tearing at my lungs. And I'm holding the cigarette between my trembling thumb and first finger. Pulling it from between my lips, and watching how the end burns bright for a fraction of a second. Until I don't think I can keep the smoke in my chest any longer. And I exhale. Closing my eyes, vile smelling smoke twisting around my mouth, over my tongue.

"You look like you needed that" she grins, her voice a little blurred because she's only moving half of her mouth. Because she's still holding her cigarette loosely between her lips. Leaving a tiny imprint of lipstick on the cheap cigarette papers. I shrug, crossing my arms leaning back against the rough brick wall opposite to her, careful not to get half-dried chewing-gum stuck to the back of my navy blue school blazer. I try very hard not to look at her, because she's tilting her chin down, trying to catch my eye. She can tell something is wrong. "You look like you need a drink later too."

"Yeah, okay" I smile, nodding happily. "I'm sorry, I'm just...I don't know. I'm alright now." I shake my head. A drag of my cigarette, I cough a little. And I can feel the nicotine hit sending my flesh crawling, as though she literally gets under my skin. Messing everything inside me up.

"Was English without me really that bad?" she jokes, smoke curling through her words and making them visible, hanging for a fraction of a second in the humid air between us. I pause for a moment, and then I reply.

"I still can't believe you wagged off it, we had to go in pairs and I was on my own like a fucking loser. Miss had to pair me" I try not to sound possessive, clingy. I know she'd hate that.

"Who did you go with?" She's smiling properly now. Teasing me, because she already knows that I'd been partnered with someone I didn't like. Or, more accurately, who she didn't like.

"Taylor" I shrug. She sniggers.

"Oh yeah, I bet she'd love to go with you, she's so gay" she rolls her eyes. And take a drag of her cigarette. She doesn't watch as something inside me slowly dies. Maybe her words are killing me. Or maybe they're silencing the thoughts twisting me up inside. I take a drag of my cigarette and wish to god that I was drunk.

"Evie, you can be such a bitch" I say softly, careful to keep an accusatory note out of my voice. And I'm not looking at her. Instead, I keep eyes fixed on my shoes and the cigarette butts scattered around our feet.

"Oh and you're so fucking nice aren't you Lo, what, you fancy her?" her voice is suddenly cold, and I know that she's flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette in quick, tiny movements. Annoyed. Maybe even angry.

"Fuck off. I'm just pissed that you left me on my own." I shrug. And I flick the ash away from the end of my cigarette too, mirroring, mimicking her movements. I can feel the tension between us slowly break down.

"Do I look like I give a fuck about English GCSE? Anyway, you could've wagged off with me and Oscar, it would've been fun." She shrugs, leaning against the wall opposite, watching me as I smoke. But suddenly my breath seems to catch in my throat. I try my hardest not to cough. Not to let my eyes water as I choke on the smoke slipping through my lips.

"Oscar?" I say his name. Gasp it almost as I attempt to catch my breath. She raises one eyebrow.

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Nothing, nothing. Nothing. It's just the English exam's in a week. Or less. Or some shit. And you're wagging off to screw Oscar?" I attempt to keep my tone careless. The exam is in precisely four days. It makes my heart hammer with nerves just thinking about it. And it makes my heart beat harder thinking about Oscar holding her close. His hands on her body. I feel sick just at the thought. But I can't ever let her know that.

"What did you do that's so damn important then?"

"We read Othello"

"What's that?"

For a fraction of a second, I think about telling her what the play is about. But then I think better of it, and I just touch my tongue to my lips and look down at the concrete. And I say "fuck knows. I don't think it's English though." Careful to keep my voice something like careless. A cheap imitation of her casual tone. I'm not sure if it works.

"Oh." She says. There's silence. Between us. Tension that I created. Silently, I hate myself. Because there's a lot of stuff I should be saying, but I'm not saying any of it. And I know that I won't ever say any of it. So I listen to her take a deep breath in as she takes a drag of her cigarette, and I keep myself safe through silence. And then, somewhere, a door slams. A suited figure steps out onto the concrete school yard. I gasp a little.

"Shit! That's Mr Byrne!" I say, hurriedly. Trying too hard to keep my voice cool. As though it's just a general observation, and I don't care that he might catch us smoking. I do care though.

"Oh for god's sake" She hisses through her teeth. Blowing out another mouthful of smoke.

And suddenly she's spitting her cigarette out from between her lips, and unobtrusively treading on the glowing end, all in one rapid, fluid movement. I mimic her. And she looks at me. I look at her. A shadow of a grin flies across her lips. And together, we run.

* * *

And I open my eyes. I blink my blurred eyes, blurred through the hot steam filling the bathroom. And bright tears. I look up to the ceiling. With the back of my hand, I wipe away the tears inexplicably falling over my cheeks. And I lean back, until I can feel my hair become hot, heavy with water. Tickling at the back of my neck, sending a slow shiver down my spine. I breathe quickly. My ears under water now, hot water crashing against my earrings. More Cartier. Price On Application. God. Price On Application, and now I'm crying silently, sobbing. My eyes squeezed closed, my tears mixing with the hot bath water. And I'm wishing, praying to something I will never believe in. Fighting a war I'm always going to lose.


	2. Chapter 2

**I apologise in advance for how bad it is. Sorry.**

**I haven't proof-read at all.**

**Sorry. Some things are shit and this is one of those things.**

**Chapter 2**

Eyes fixed on the road. Wet pavement, teaming with raincoat-clad tourists and puddles, glass sky scrapers. I can't see the sky. But I know it's grey, hot, grimy city rain lashing down. Spilling all over my newly cleaned car. Sooty raindrops on the violently red bonnet. Someone pulls out in front of me, rudely jamming in front of me. I break a little too suddenly. And I grit my teeth, but don't sound the horn.

"Fuckers" I whisper, frowning. And then shaking my perfectly curled blonde hair over my shoulders. I look down at my phone, tossed carelessly onto the empty leather passenger seat. Three missed calls. And I know they're all from the office. Because I'm dangerously close to being late for a very important meeting. Well, as late as I ever am. I'm never really late, bustling, breathless into a meeting that's already started, murmuring something about my children being on half-term holiday, or my husband being ill. I hate those women. The women who don't have a personalised calendar on their phone, a colour-coded timetable and discrete alarms marking every quarter hour. God, I hate them.

I tap my nails on the steering wheel, and try to keep my temper with the painfully slow London rush hour traffic. I know I could just take the tube, but I hate the underground. I hate the sharp-suited, greasy businessmen and the cocky city boys and foreign, lost looking tourists. All sharing the same air, crammed into each other's personal space. Bodies crammed next to bodies. United in a shared hatred of Monday mornings and those idiots who listen to their music too loudly, inflicting it upon the whole carriage. Briefcases and iPads and no eye-contact. I've had relationships with less physical contact than I have with a nameless, faceless stranger on the London Underground.

I prefer a commute that would take under ten minutes on the tube, but nearly an hour through London's packed streets. An hour on my own, the engine of my Ferrari gently purring. Stretching, never once roaring with full power. Idling through the city. With cream Italian leather, as soft as hot milk, and Radio five coolly keeping me "up to date" with the news. Which is practically the same every morning. Some shooting in America, a missing child, grieving families. One football team won, another lost. It's probably going to rain at the weekend. The traffic in London is bad, there's a crash on the M1. I sigh, and sink a little lower into the leather seat. My phone rings again. I tear my eyes away from the road for an instant, and spare glance at the screen. It's my boyfriend. I sigh. Why is he ringing me? I should be in the office, and he knows never to ring when I'm working. I could pick up. But I don't. I let it ring out.

I shake my head, tapping my nails on the steering wheel once again. A cigarette would relax me. My eyes flicker towards my handbag, thrown into the footwell of the passenger side. I could wind the windows down, and smoke a quick cigarette. A cigarette, and then two pieces of gum. Hot smoke twisting over my tongue, and then icy cold mint like a splash of cool water. No. No. I tap my fingers a little quicker. I don't actually want t cigarette. I'm just bored, tired, stressed. God. I breathe in, and breathe out. Imagining, despite myself, thick smoke twisting from between my immaculately glossed lips. No. Smoking isn't good for me, it burns at your lungs and destroys your very blood. But god, I like it. No. No. I should quit, I know I should. I still crave it though, I still need it when I'm stressed. Or, even better, the lulling calm of a weed high. No. I haven't smoked weed for years. Not since...since...No. No, for god's sake, don't think about it. I breathe out through my nose, quickly. Sighing.

* * *

"I'm baked" I slur carelessly. "Like a...like a..." I blink up into the watery sunlight, the clouds hovering in the pale blue sky spinning dangerously. I blink again. Instead of coming into focus, it seems to slip further out of view. Blurred, just like my voice.

"Omelette?" Evie smiles down at me. And then sucks her cheeks in, blowing smoke down into my mouth. Her lips inches above my own. My heart flips over. But that's because I've been drinking, I've drunk a lot. Vodka that tastes like paint stripper, still burning at the roof of my mouth. Scalding between my teeth, tearing down my throat. And I've been smoking cheap, vile weed. A lot. And now I'm flat on my back in the short, dusty grass of the park, feeling it tickling at the small of my back, where my school shirt has rumpled up a little.

"You mean cake. You're baked like a cake, and what the fuck is an omelette?" Oscar interjects, his voices slurred by the alcohol too. And he's wrapping his hands around Evie's waist, pulling her closer to him.

"It's like egg and shit, like eggs and..." she says, and then, from below, I watch them kiss messily. Open mouths and rough tongues. Kissing looks funny at this angle. Maybe it looks funny from any angle. I don't know. I feel like laughing weakly, giggling, but it doesn't quite work. I just breathe a little quicker, my stomach twisting into knots. Because I've never watched them kiss like this before, because I've always carefully averted my eyes. But now I'm drunk and I'm stoned and I don't care anymore. I really don't care. I watch as Evie pulls away from the kiss and looks down at me. Hazel eyes lined with red and thick dark eyeliner. Watching me as I take a long drag of the thin joint Oscar rolled for me.

"You're smoking up like a chimney. What's up?" she says. Somewhere above my head, I hear Oscar's friends laughing loudly. Ham and, what was the other boy's name again? I don't know. I do know that I didn't like him. I didn't like the way he looked at me, pale eyes bloodshot, lips pulled back in what was supposed to be a smile. Leering. I shiver a little. And I hear the sharp, cold clink of vodka bottles. I imagine the boys throwing their heads back, laughing tipsily in the dull sunlight.

"Nothin's up." I try to shrug, as I reply to her, but it doesn't quite work. Too drunk. Off my head. I giggle a little.

"Cos you're already fucking stoned. You'll just make yourself sick. And smoke up all my weed." Oscar is frowning. And drinking, straight from the bottle. His lips, which, moments before were touching hers, now around the mouth of the bottle. Leaving a tiny imprint of her lipstick there on the clear glass.

"Shut the fuck up, you're not my mum" I pout right back up at him. And then I laugh, and Evie laughs too.

So she speaks instead. She's pissed, drunk and annoyed. "Come on Lo, what's up? I'm supposed to be your fucking best friend."

I know she's frowning. I bite at the tip of my tongue. I can taste the sharp tang of cheap alcohol there. Blurring up my mind, messing with my head. Sending my stomach twisting away into sick knots. I take another swig of burning alcohol, vaguely hoping that it might make me braver. I almost choke. Gag reflex and burning, vile vodka. Searing false hope down my throat. Helping me find bravery in my cowardice. And maybe it works, because, finally, I speak.

"Blake asked me out" I say, but I still don't look at her, rolling my eyes up to the heavy grey clouds. She sniggers quietly, taking another drag of her cigarette. I don't feel like laughing anymore. I feel like being sick.

"Blake? What you got that face on for then? I thought you liked him?" She says. 'I thought you liked him.' Those words, reverberating again and again around my hopelessly spinning head. God, she, she thought that I liked him? I can feel the rough vodka trying to force its way back up my throat, lubricated with ridiculous, drunken tears. Stinging at the backs of my eyes. But I lie flat on my back. I take another swig of vodka, and choke it all down. Silencing the screams in my head, twisting over my stomach once again. God.

"I like him, but like, I don't like, like him. Like, like that." I say, slurring terribly now. Closing my eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the world from spinning scarily.

"Yeah, but he's alright though. You did say yeah, yeah?" Her frown is deepening, I know she's frowning. And I know she's looking at me too, confused. But I still don't open my eyes, because I don't dare make eye contact. In case she reads too much in my blurred, bloodstained eyes. I take a long, slow drag of my cigarette before replying. As if I'm savouring the way the nicotine hit blurs scarily with the weed high and the slurring, shaking alcohol. Pretending that I don't hate it all, hate the way it spins me out of control. Out of my mind.

"No. No, I said no" I speak quickly. As though I'm breaking bad news to her. As though I've got to force the words from my throat before I lose my nerve.

"Oh for fuck's sake Lo..." Oscar is laughing at me. I hate the way he says my name, cockily. Too confident. Slurred, slow. The single contestant too short, the single vowel too short. Lo. I've always hated people shortening my name. Everyone apart from her. I don't mind when she does it, that single syllable tripping off the tip of her tongue. Lo.

"I don't like him like that" I insist.

"What do girls mean when they say that?" The boy who's name I don't know looks down at me, sneering a little. Making fun of me maybe.

"What's wrong with him?" Oscar's other friend, Ham, is frowning. I prop myself up on one arm, blinking too slowly as the world around me spins. A hundred miles an hour, lights popping too brightly as I blink. I sway a fraction, gasping a little. Ham, who sits beside me, puts out one hand to gently steady me, his laughing face suddenly coming into sharp focus. I shrink away from his touch, my body twisting sharply. I frown, but he hasn't noticed. He's still laughing.

"He looks like he's never washed his hair. Ever. And he's on coke" I raise one eyebrow. Pretending that I turned him down because of his dark hair, slicked through with grease and foul-smelling gel, and his questionable drug habits. I try to imagine dating him, holding his hand, kissing him messily. Kissing him the way Evie kisses Oscar. His rough, searching, careless lips. And his hands might be sweaty, hot. No. I don't want to think about it. I can't. My stomach ties into knots. God. No. I don't like him like that. I don't really like him at all. I can feel my heartbeat beginning to race. And I feel sick, dizzyingly sick. I breathe out, and carefully keep my composure.

"He's not on coke, he's just a bit..." Evie starts speaking confidently, but quickly trails off when she sees the look on my face.

"Of an arrogant wanker?" I finish her sentence for her, scoffing disdainfully. And she smiles. And then she laughs. And suddenly, I feel good. Maybe the nicotine is beginning to hit me. I take another drag. Inspecting my cigarette, still not properly looking at her. As though she could read my thoughts in my face. She can't, of course. Because she's never looked hard enough.

"Shut up, who cares, Nat says he's a banging good shag"

"Great, well good for her. Hold on, when did Natalie screw him?" I frown, as though I care. As though I'm desperate for some scrap of gossip. She rolls her eyes.

"It doesn't matter, and seriously Lorraine. What did he say to you, no, what did you say to him?" She's frowning. Obviously exasperated.

"I just said that I didn't want to. He seemed okay with it, I don't think he really likes me anyway. He probably prefers Natalie." My voice cool, a grin slipping onto my lips. Just turning up at the corners as I take a final drag of my cigarette. And suddenly she's giggling, shaking her head.

"He doesn't, in case you haven't noticed Lo, you're really pretty." She says. And suddenly, I don't feel ill. I feel good. Light. And the watery sunlight isn't pale, weak. It feels hot, sending a warm glow shimmering over my body, like the radiant, white stage lights. Hot and cold and soul-shatteringly bright. And the smoke from my cigarette doesn't just burn, it sears and it scalds and it blisters. And I tip my chin back, and I laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

**Nah, I don't know why I'm still writing this either.**

**Chapter 3**

"What's wrong Lorraine?"

"Nothing." I look up at him, and he pours me another glass of expensive white wine. I watch the way the off-white liquid falls, tumbling over itself, hurrying into my glass. And I'm glad that he doesn't mind me drinking like this, because the sweet alcohol makes this easier. Not effortless though, not natural. God. No. It's supposed to be like this, this is right. We're okay. I'm happy. And he's watching me drink as I take a single sip of the wine. And then, when he glances away, I drink quickly. Feeling the wine slipping effortlessly down my throat. And I pray that it can blur up my head.

"Okay." He looks down at my hand, my fingernails tapping sharply on the white leather of my sofa. My nails long, violently red. My fingers shaky, nervous. I don't like him being here, in my living room, his Italian leather shoes on the white fur rug. His face clean-shaven , his eyes catching in the candlelight. The electric fire on. Throwing sticky heat into the room. He loosens the collar of his shirt a little.

"Oh, I got you something babe." He's smiling, and patting hurriedly at the pockets of his jacket. "Because I missed you when I was in Paris, I saw it, and I thought of you." And he's passing me a small, off-black jewellery box. I recognise the tiny silver 'B' insignia on the top of the box. And my heart beats a little faster. Nervous, guilty. Not excited, or happy, or pleased. I don't want him to buy me expensive presents, I don't want him to lavish me with gifts in a desperate hope that I'll sleep with him.

"You didn't have to." I say, my voice cool. But I carefully put my glass of wine on the tiny, flimsy table beside me. And I turn over the jewellery box, spinning it between my fingers.

"I wanted to. Come on, open it." My heart sinks a little as I look at him, and his happy, hopeless, hopeful eyes, and I glance down as I open it. The hinges click a little. Hot candlelight glinting off the cool, glistening metal. A bracelet, silver, or maybe white gold, resting on silk that's nearly, but not quite, black. I don't know. But I know they're diamonds, icy cold, ingrained in the cool precious metal.

"Thank you." I breathe. And I let him lean in to kiss me, just once on the cheek, and I silently hate myself.

"64 diamonds, they're all over 2.5 carats." He says softly, as though I would care how big the diamonds are, or how many thousands of pounds he paid for it. I suddenly feel cold. I place the box on the leather of the seat beside me, and I take another gulp of wine. And then another. I don't savour the taste, I just drink for the sake of it.

"Thank you. It's beautiful." I say. And as the words drip from my tongue, I know that I don't mean any of them.

"You're beautiful." He says. His voice maybe a little deeper now as he leans back in towards me again. I breathe through my nose, and I can smell his expensive aftershave and the even more expensive alcohol on his breath.

"No, no, You know I can't accept this. And I told you not to get me anything." I push the box back towards him. But he sits a little closer to me, his knees brushing against my bare legs. His expensive, made-to-measure suit. I look away from him, and drink a little more wine. I can feel it finally beginning to blur up my mind, loosening my tongue and my inhibitions.

"You can. Come on, put it on babe." And he doesn't wait for my answer. He's detangling the bracelet from the silken pillow it lays on, and holding my wrist a little too tight, his fingertips pressing against the thin blue veins that run under my skin. And he's fastening the bracelet carefully around my wrist, his fingers gently flying over the cool metal, his fingers still too rough on my skin. And when it's fastened, he drops my wrist and lets me raise it to the light.

"This is ridiculous, you can't carry on buying me presents every time you go away, I don't want you to." I say seriously, my voice cool and quick.

And then he leans in to kiss me. Suddenly, and for a second I'm caught off guard. I'm too shocked to pull away instantly. So I just freeze. My heart beating too quickly, but not in a nice way, in a confusing, dizzying way. And I hate it. And his breathing is quicker. And his lips are quicker too. Rougher. His hands trail over my hips, and he's running his hot palm up my bare thigh. God, I hate the way he's touching me. It makes my skin crawl. I shiver a little. Every nerve in my body tight, and I think adrenaline is beginning to race around my body. I'm ready to fight or run. Tense. And I can feel his hands, gently skating over my skin. And he's still kissing me, his hot breath laced with alcohol and a little too quick. I just concentrate on kissing him. Keeping my lips moving, playing my part. Closing my eyes and letting him touch me. My heart fluttering with cold nerves. I can feel his breath everywhere, creeping over my neck. I try to breathe normally. But I can taste his aftershave mixing with white wine, coating the roof of my mouth, in a thick, sickening layer. A tiny, almost inaudible noise escapes my lips, and I hold onto the back of his neck, his short hair prickling under my fingertips. And then he's got one hand on my thigh, the other fumbling with his flies. So I find it inexplicably harder to keep my eyes closed and imagine that he's...different. And so I blink my eyes open, and pull away from him. His eyes are still closed, and he leans forwards a little, trying to kiss me again.

"No, no, please...no..." I wriggle out of his arms. My voice slowly getting louder, stronger. For almost a fraction of a second he grips me tighter. So tightly that it hurts. Maybe his fingertips leave little tiny marks on my thighs. I don't know. Because then he drops me, pulling his hands away too quickly, as though maybe I burnt him. And I can almost breathe again.

"Lorraine..." he murmurs. And I'm struggling away from, sitting right at the other side of the leather sofa. Curling my legs up beneath my body, pulling the skirt of my dress down a little, trying to stretch the material over my knees. And he looks at me, my blue eyes wide, my hair a mess. "Lorraine, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, deep. Maybe a little bit slurred. But he's nowhere near as drunk as I am. I sigh.

"Look...look, I don't think this is going to work." I say softly. Trying to ignore the bubbling panic rising in my chest. I can't do this. I know, I know I can't do this. And I look down at my hands, still fiddling with the hemline of my dress, because I can't look him in the eye. I'm too scared that he might see the freezing truth beneath my burning lies.

"Lorraine?" He says my name softly. And I don't still don't look up. I run the soft fabric a little quicker through my fingertips.

"It's over." I say coldly. My accent suddenly sounds a different. A little stronger than normal maybe, twisting up the two words.

"I'm sorry?" He's gaping at me. As though he can't believe what he's hearing.

"You heard me, it's over." I say quickly. Coldly. I twist my head away, deliberately looking away from him, instead focusing my eyes on some blank point just over his shoulder. I don't want to see his face, and the burning disappointment I'll see there.

"You're breaking up with me?" He says, anger rising in his voice.

"Yeah." I nod. And he stands. And I suddenly realise how much taller he is than me. I shrink back against the sofa a little, looking up at him. But he just shakes his head.

"Oh. Oh." He murmurs, and he raises his hands, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. I see his Adam's apple rise a little as he gulps. And then he looks away from me. And his lips part, and wobble for a second. And then he turns away too quickly. He slams the living room door. I hear the hard soles of his handmade shoes on the black Tuscan marble floor in the hallway. And then the front door slams too. So hard that I can hear the solid wooden panels rattle a little. I flinch a little. And I rake my hand through my hair.

"Take the bracelet, oh for god's sake, take the damn bracelet with you!" I rip it from my wrist, flinging it too late, at the door that he's just left through. It lands in the floor with a unsatisfying clatter. I feel like screaming.

And then I slide onto the floor, onto the white fur rug. Kicking off my heels slowly. Red soles glinting in the candlelight. I run my fingers though the soft, luxury fur rug. It feels hot, almost as though it's alive. And then I run one hand though my hair, sweeping it out of my face. A candle guts, flickering, and then extinguishing its own fragile light. A wisp of smoke, I can taste it faintly in the air as I breathe slowly. And I don't cry. I just sit there, alone in the darkness. Drowning in inky darkness and the alcohol flooding through my blood. I want to stand, even if my legs shake a little. I want to go to my room, and sleep. But I don't want to sleep alone. I'm tired and I'm tired of sleeping on my own. My body aches, breathing is hard. I think about lighting up a cigarette. But I know that I need something infinitely more than just a nicotine hit.

I reach for my phone. And I scroll down the list of contacts. A fake name, of course. I lay down, flat on my back on the hot fur rug. My hair spilling all over the thick material, flowing away from my face. My eyes struggle for a moment to focus on the names on my contact list. And I press call. My hands shake, and I nearly drop my phone. But I grip onto it a little harder. And balance it beside my ear. Listening to the calming buzz of the dialling tone. And listening to it ringing once, twice, thrice before she picks up.

A knock on the door. I don't move. I'm still laying flat on my back on the living room floor. Another knock. My heart flips over, not expectation threading through my head, making my heart beat a fast, unsteady rhythm. But I pause for a second before I reply.

"Come in" I call. I think my voice slurs terribly. I'm not sure though. There's a pause. "I said come in." I call a little louder. And I hear the handle twist. And she pushes open the door slowly. I hear high heels clicking on the marble floor. She takes three steps, and pauses.

"Lorraine?" her voice is soft.

"I'm in here." I reply. And the living room door is pushed slowly open. She looks different when she's upside down. But she still looks hot. Her glossy black hair is swept up, away from her neck. Military style jacket, with a high collar. Her legs long, bare. Her lips bare too, her eyes smoky. Hot. Slowly she bends down, and picks up the diamond-studded bracelet that's laying discarded on the dark wooden floor. She holds it up, close to her face, inspecting it in the semi-darkness. And then she glances over at me. Her green eyes cool, critical.

"Are you okay? What the fucking hell are you doing down there?" There's no surprise in her voice, just casual curiosity.

"I broke up with him." I try my very hardest not to slur my words. And I try to cry, because my eyes are shamefully dry.

"Oh. Why?"

"Why do you think? But I don't want to talk about it. I don't pay you to talk." She smirks a little as I speak. She crosses the room, and throws her handbag onto the sofa before sitting beside it. Her long legs delicately crossed. She looks down at me, running her eyes over and over my body. And then she smiles, properly now.

"Okay. You're drunk aren't you?" She looks down at me.

"I said, I don't pay you to talk, I pay you to fuck me." And she laughs as I speak. God, her laugh like hot treacle, I can feel it rippling over my body in boiling waves.

"Okay." She smiles. Her accent is posh. Privately educated. But somehow her tongue seems to shape the words differently, tripping the syllables from her tongue. Silkily smooth, glossily laden with the offer of sex."Time for me to start making some money then." She purrs. I close my eyes.

* * *

"Come on Lo, for god's sake, we're going to be late!"

"Fashionably late" I shrug, twisting around, watching my reflection in the mirror. I've borrowed one of her dresses. Black, short, my blonde hair down. My nails painted hot Barbie pink. "Do I look okay?"

"You look great, you always fucking look great, now can you please hurry up?" She's already drinking, her voice already slurred. Sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor. And I suddenly remember what she used to look like in primary school, her dark hair tied up with loose ribbons, her limbs too thin and too long. But then she drank milk from a lukewarm cardboard container with a cartoon cow on the side, not her big brother's vodka, straight from the bottle. Leaving lipstick smudges on the cool glass. "The boys are gonna pick us up in urmm...like...ten minutes, and you look like you really need a drink." She holds out the bottle towards me. I take it, and I try on a smile. But it slips from my face as I take a gulp of the burning alcohol. She rolls her eyes at me, a slight smile just pressing into her cheeks as her hazel eyes flutter over my body. In my chest, my heart seems to flip over, pressing against my throat so I can barely breathe, barely swallow. But I force the vile alcohol down into my stomach. And wipe my mouth roughly with the back of my hand.

"Cheers" I smile, passing the bottle back to her. She takes another sip. And then, somewhere below us, a car horn sounds. And Evie jumps nervously, and she stands too quickly, holding her hand out to take mine.

"That'll be the boys, come on."

And I follow her down the stairs on my tip-toes, not wanting to wake her mam and dad. And she's giggling nervously, excitedly. Clasping onto my hand tighter. Halfway down the stairs she pauses. I can only see half her face, in the sliver of golden light creeping through the glass panel above her front door. And glances up at me, her eyes suddenly a shade darker than normal, seeming to glow through the darkness. And her pupils swell. And I suddenly can feel my pulse racing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry this is short.**

**And I'm sorry I'm shit.**

**It's nearly midnight.**

**Whatever.**

**Chapter 4**

And she's shrugging off her coat. And she pulls off her tiny black dress too, easily. Hot, thick black fabric falling away from her body. White lace underwear. Her skin is pale, tiny lines carving shadows under her ribs, a thin, dark tattoo swirling down her side. Tumbling flowers, twisting over her ribs. She slowly raises one hand, and suddenly her black hair is falling and falling all the way over her pale, slim shoulders. And my eyes are everywhere, all over her. And she's biting at her lips. And then, slowly at first, and then all at once, she's on the floor, on all fours. Kneeling over me. Biting at her own lips, and then biting at mine. I close my eyes. Her lips are deliciously soft. Light. She smells of perfume and expensive cigarettes. The scent ingrained, ground into her heavenly soft skin. And she's laughing as she kisses me lightly, dripping kisses, falling from her lips as though it's so easy. Nipping again at my bottom lip with her teeth. Letting me breathe, tiny little gasps, in stolen moments between hurried kisses. Maybe she shouldn't be kissing me. Maybe I shouldn't be kissing her. But god, I don't care. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care about anything anymore. I tell myself I'm drunk, and I let her touch me. And I like it, god I like it. She's all skin and soft limbs and pale curves, as she scrapes her hair all over one shoulder as she leans down towards me once again. My lips part, and I try not to make a sound. Throwing my head back a little. Frowning, concentrating too hard on absolute silence. My hair a mess, sprawling over the hot fur rug. I twist in her arms, writhing away from her so I don't have to look into her eyes as she kisses me again. This time her lips collide with the corner of my mouth. Over and over, trying to make me twist my head back towards her. But I don't. I can't. I can't look at her. I squeeze my eyes closed even tighter. Little lights popping in front of my vision. I try to breathe. I try over and over, but somehow I can't force that gushing cool air into my lungs.

"Lorraine?" She murmurs my name softly, her nails rough on my chin, her fingers pressing into my cheeks a little. Forcing my face back towards hers, really forcing me this time. Her lips hovering over mine for a fraction of a second. So I can taste her breath, her hot lips making mine tremble in even hotter, burning anticipation. And then I'm kissing her properly again. Quickly. I'm rushing things, making her lips move too fast. Her breathing a little faster still, but maybe I'm imagining it, because I'm breathing like I'm running too. And she's running her fingertips through my hair, pinning my head back against the hard wooden floor and the soft rug. The roots of my hair already hot with boiling sweat, and she's wrapping tiny, thin strands of my platinum blonde hair around her fingers, creating hot little ringlets. And she's kissing in tiny, delicate lines along my forehead. Her hands detangling themselves from my hair, pulling at it a little. And then she's trailing her hands down my neck, and playing quickly with the neckline of my dress. Her lips following her fingertips, and dropping kisses on the tight tendons of my throat. And then her lips go a little lower. Over my collarbones, my heaving chest. Her hands circling my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress, gently teasing me. I pant, gasping.

"Oh my god." I breathe. My eyes squeezed closed. And she's laughing again, a little louder now. Digging her nails into my thighs as she pulls up the hemline of my dress. Inches more thigh. One hand wrapped around my back as she teases the thin zipper between her long fingers. Pausing, a moment of power-play, because she could undress me, but she's not going to. Not yet. I kiss her, over and over. Desperate, searching. Always wanting, hoping for something inexplicably more.

"Bedroom?" Her voice is low, growling from the back of her throat. I blink open my eyes, and look at her for a moment. My blood seems to burn as it pulses too quickly around my body. I can't think, because I want her.

"God yeah" I gasp. And she stands slowly, perfectly balancing on her seven-inch heels. And I'm scrambling to my feet. And she's kissing me again, her lips almost careless, too hot. Pinning me back against the living room wall for a moment, her hands on my wrists, pulling me back against the hard wall and the expensive silk wallpaper sliding across my skin. Her body pressed against mine, soft white lace and her flawless skin, soft curves. And her lips are torturously skating down my neck, biting at the thin tendons, leaving tiny marks with her teeth. Then, her tongue. I gasp, again and again. Until I'm dizzy, and I can barely breathe.

"Come on Lorraine" she bites at her bottom lip, her eyes narrowed a little. Her eyes smoky, impossibly dark, her lips bare, blushing red as she bites at them. I kiss her again as her hands trail down to my hips.

"Oh my god, please" My voice straining from the back of my throat. And I think that she giggles a little. And she holds my hand, her palm cool, as she pulls me towards the stairs. I'm a little unsteady, stumbling, drunk. She glances back at me over her shoulder as she climbs the Italian marble stairs. Leading me to my bedroom.

I can hear her breathing through the darkness, and I can hear my blood pounding too. But suddenly she's nothing more than a pale sliver of moonlight, shining through the dark. Half of her face cast into inky black shadows.

"Don't turn on the lights" I murmur to her. She doesn't move, not for a long heartbeat. I breathe in, and then out.

And then we're falling back into bed together. And she's pulling off my clothes, I'm wriggling out of my dress, and I'm slowly, just slowly, losing my mind.

* * *

"Spin the bottle!" Ham juggles an empty vodka bottle between his hot, sweaty palms. There's a tiny drop of clear liquid still jumping around inside the cool glass, and I watch the way it moves, following it lazily with my blurring eyes.

"No fucking way, piss off" I slur, careless. Because I'm drunk, but I'm sober enough to realise that this is a bad idea.

"Come on Lo, don't be like that!" Evie snuggles closer to me, one hand on my bare thigh, the other still clutching a plastic cup, filled with a suspicious looking, homemade cocktail. There were tiny black dots floating in the urine-coloured liquid. I shudder a little.

"What, you want to play this?" I ask her, drunk and quietly incredulous.

"Yeah! Why not, don't be so fucking boring!" She slurs back. I'm drunk, but she's absolutely slaughtered.

"For god's sake, we're not twelve and at a sleepover!" I giggle, but I know that it won't take much to persuade me to play. Not if she continues to look at me like that with her big, deliciously hazel eyes. No. Delicious isn't perhaps the right word. But I don't know what the right word is anymore. She's my best friend. My best fucking friend.

"Which makes it loads more fun. Come on Lo, it'll be fun." She twists away from me, shouting carelessly over her shoulder to the noisy room in general. Her voice a little distorted, a little too loud. "Oscar, Oscar, come here!" And then she turns back to face me, her eyes blurred by cheap alcohol and weed and whatever else she'd been popping. Because I'd seen her with bright pills in the palm of her hand. Before she swallowed them dry, easily. As though it were nothing. As though she'd done it a hundred times before. "You're playing, right?"

"Okay. Okay, fine, whatever." I shrug. And she smiles, satisfied as Oscar falls to the floor beside her, puffing smoke from between his rough lips, and passing Evie his thin joint. Ham smiles too, his eyes wide and somehow something more than just happy.

"Yesssss girl" he grins, only using one corner of his mouth to speak. I look away from him. "I've got these pills, they're like a German herbal thing to relax you..." as he speaks he pulls a tiny, re-sealable plastic bag from his pocket, and waves it before my blurring eyes. I see smudged outlines of three red pills.

"They're not really, are they?" I lean back against Evie, and I can vaguely feel her playing aimlessly with my hair.

"Nope." He smiles again, bottom lip clutched between his teeth now.

"Oh god." Her hand on my thigh tightens a little. Nails in my skin. Her hazel eyes almost flicker closed. Not yet though, not quite.

"How do you feel?" I murmur.

"I can feel it now. Oh my...god." Her voice is all mixed up, slurred, messy, slow. Her head drops back a little, dark hair curling over her face. So I can barely see her shockingly dilated pupils.

"How do they make you feel?" I ask Ham, a little desperate now. My voice high, slurred too, panicked maybe. And he just looks at me, his lips slightly parted, his pupils whizzing too fast. And when Evie speaks, it's as though her body is on earth, in this dark, sweaty house party. But her mind is a hundred thousand miles away, giddy through lack of oxygen and the closeness of the stars.

"It makes you feel like you're burning, and it's beautiful."

I hold out a hand.

And I tip my head back, and I swallow the pill.


	5. Chapter 5

**Not going to be able to write anything else for a week cos I'm going to Rome. (Soz, I'm such a smug bitch I can't help it.)**

**This chapter is bullshit and I'm still sorry.**

**Reviews are lovely I like reviews more than anything, but thank you for reading.**

**Chapter 5**

"Here, hold this-" I pass her my cigarette. And I breathe out, curling smoke pouring from my lips and giving a cool grey shape to my words. Expensive black foil, hot gold, Russian, dropping pale ash onto the silk sheets. Dripping, burning, glowing. I pull the hot silk sheets a little higher over my chest, and look at her, just for a moment. And she props the cigarette between her first and second fingers, alongside her own. And she watches me, narrowing her eyes a little as I lean across the bed, and open the draw beside my bed. Her eyes are smoky, hot, her makeup a little too smudged. Delicately messed up. Her hair is curling over her chest, messy curls. The sheets pulled halfway over her stomach, revealing endless, glowing skin. Maybe my palms sweat a little, but I'm not sure. I definitely know that I feel a little nervous, because she is stunningly beautiful, and her gaze is cruising over my body slowly, lazily. Complacently. My skin feels hot under her gaze, burning. On the bedside table, my phone rings yet again. And I absolutely ignore it.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" She murmurs softly, raising one eyebrow as she takes a slow drag of both our cigarettes.

"No. " I reply bluntly.

"Oh. Okay. Okay." She shrugs, rolling her eyes at me, as though I'm some young, precocious child. Flicking cigarette ash over the sheets. And I don't reply again. Silently I flick through the thick roll of banknotes.

"How much?" I say. Coolly. She takes another long drag of both the cigarettes, breathing out in thin gasps. Blowing pale, wobbly rings of smoke in to my face. Taking her time, her eyes almost closed, mascara nearly smudged. And then she replies.

"Ten." One word, laced through and through with hot smoke.

"Great." I touch the side of one thumb to my lips, and I flip through the notes. "Don't talk to me while I'm counting" I murmur to her. And I take my time counting them. And hold out a thick wad towards her. She looks at the money, the big, thin, brilliantly red bank notes. Her eyes flicking over them. And she pauses. She hovers, indecisive for a long moment.

"No. No, make it six." She says quickly. As though if she says it fast enough, it won't be unprofessional, unorthodox. I sigh.

"I don't mind giving you ten, you earnt it." I hold the money out to her, because, right now, it really doesn't matter to me. It's just paper.

"I said six." She insists. She doesn't even look at the ten thousand pounds I'm holding out to her. Ten thousand pounds. That's more than some people earn in a year. But I always try not to think about that, because it makes my stomach flip over and over as though I'm on a rollercoaster, spinning away out of control.

"Even better then." I shrug. I don't want to fight with her about it, because, after all, it doesn't really matter to me. It's just money. Just another fat wad of fifty-pound notes. "Unprofessional, isn't it?" I keep my voice cool and stop my hands from shaking. And I flick through the money. And I count another eighty notes back. And leave them, slightly rumpled, on the bedside table. Carelessly discarded.

"Fuck off." She smiles at me as she speaks. And then she's looking at the money as I toss it across the sheets towards her. Thin, pinkish red paper.

"Fine." I murmur as I jerk my head towards the door. "You...you can fuck off, you know, if you want?" She just looks at me as I speak, and nods.

"Cheers for the cash." She reaches for it, flicking through it almost carelessly, but I know she's actually counting it, almost frighteningly quickly. I watch her for a moment, the way the numbers hover in her eyes as she counts. She could've been the best accountant I'd ever met, but now she's earning thousands more than any sharp-suited city boy. And I close my eyes. The phone beside my bed rings again. Buzzing, annoying me. I vaguely think about turning it off, but I don't move. "Lorraine?" She murmurs softly as she hovers in the doorway for a moment.

"Yeah?" I open one eye. And close it quickly. I tell myself that if I can keep my eyes closed until she's gone, then she'll have never really been here at all. And it was all just in my head. No. This shouldn't even be happening in my head, it shouldn't even be some private fantasy. No. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the buzzing sound of my phone ringing from my confused, sex-saturated mind. No. I tell myself, over and over, that this is wrong. But the memory of her skin against mine blurs back into the forefront of my mind. Making everything else suddenly impossible to remember. I sigh, and I know that she's watching me.

"Why don't you answer your phone? It's been ringing for...ages." Her voice is soft, hesitant. As though she cares what my reply will be. But why should she?

"I'll see you around." I murmur. And I don't even open my eyes as I speak to her. Dismissing her quickly, because I need to detangle my mind, and I can't do that while she's slouched, effortlessly glamorous, in bed beside me.

"Lorraine..?" She murmurs. I think she's propping one cigarette between her lips. But I don't open my eyes.

"Night." I say, my voice a little louder now.

"Morning, you mean. It's four in the morning." She murmurs, her voice gentle.

"Fuck off" And I hear her as she sighs, but I think she's still smiling. And then, without saying another word, she leaves.

After I hear the front door slam, I slowly open my eyes. And look blankly up at the ceiling. Perfectly smooth white plaster. I blink slowly as I pinch my wrist, hard. My skin flickers from white to blood red. I feel the hot sheets rise and fall as I sigh. I run one hand though my messily curled hair. Sex hair. And glance down at the tiny red scratch marks she left, as her long nails glided across my sweat-soaked skin. Leaving me panting, my senses heightened to a point of burning numbness as her dripping hot lips went lower. I shake my head again. Rolling onto my chest, reaching for the bottle of vodka in the draw beside my bed. Craving lukewarm alcohol to lull me into restless sleep.

* * *

"No! No! Spin it again..." she giggles, covering her face with one of her hands as she laughs a little softer. So she can't see that the almost-empty bottle's neck is pointing directly towards her. And she just leans back against Oliver's shoulder, her hair tumbling over her back as she shakes her head, quietly disbelieving.

"No I won't!" Ham insists. "So it's Evie and..." He whistles low under his breath as he reaches forwards and spins the bottle again. And it wobbles, spinning so fast it turns into a bright blur, reflecting the cool lights. Evie squeezes her eyes closed, clapping both eyes in front of her eyes, as though she can't watch what happens next. It slows. And stops, predictably, in front of me. Of course it does. For a second I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, as though it might change anything. But when I open my eyes, the bottle is still pointing at me. And my heart sinks so quickly I forget to breathe for a moment. And Oliver is throwing his head back and laughing louder now, peeling Evie's hands away from her face, as she blushes and protests. But she's still giggling. And I'm definitely not laughing.

"Look, Evie, look!" Oscar is pointing, holding her hands by her tiny, thin wrists. His eyes shining a little too brightly. I don't like the way he's looking from her to me, and then back to his girlfriend again.

"God, Lorraine, no need to look so pleased" Ham says, his voice dripping with sarcasm as his eyes scan over my face, and the frown cutting down between my eyebrows.

"Shut up" I murmur, glancing across at him. I shake my head and bite down at my bottom lip, and glance at Evie as she starts to speak. Waiting for her reply, waiting for her to tell me what I should do. Because right now, I honestly have no idea. I don't know what I want anymore, the alcohol and drugs twisting up my head until I'm staring shamelessly at her, the way her neck twists, her hazel eyes blinking slowly.

"No, no, there is no bloody way I'm doing this!" She's laughing still, blushing now, pressing her palms against her face and looking, gobsmacked, at me.

"You've got to, the rules of the game-" Ham's voice is a little slurred as he speaks, his eyes blurring as he looks from Evie to myself.

"Jesus Lo." She murmurs slowly. Her face is serious as she looks at me too, her smile sliding from her face. I suddenly feel nervous, all eyes on me. And I try to smile, look embarrassed, nervous, just like she does. "Do you want to?"

"For the last fucking time Evie, you don't get a bloody choice!" Ham is laughing, but his voice is almost deadly serious.

"Come on you two, please just snog and get it over with!" That's Oscar now, his palm is circling over her back, in slow, calming circles. Reassuring her. Letting her know that he doesn't mind. Of course he doesn't. Fuck him. And god, I wish that I could touch her like that. And she twists around and looks at him, biting down against her bottom lip. I watch her breathe in, eyes flickering over his face. And then she turns back to look at me, and a slow smile twists across her face, curling up just the corner of her lips.

"Come here then Lo." She says, her voice soft, low, her eyes already fixed on my lips. Jerking her head a little. "Come here" she says again, as though I'm the only one who can hear her. I like the way my name, the one syllable tripping of the tip of her alcohol-laced tongue as though it's so effortless, easy even.

"What? Really?" I try my hardest not to sound too happy about it. And I'm surprised about how cool, calm I sound.

"Yeah." And she leans towards me, her eyes closing a little. Not quite though, I'm sure she can still see me, her eyelashes dark and stretching across her cheeks. I can't close my eyes. I really can't. I need to watch her as I kiss her. For the first time, I see that there's a freckle just below her left eye, slightly darker than all the others scattered across her cheeks. And her lips are perfectly red and are parting slowly. She touches her tongue to her lips, and her eyes flicker open for nearly a fraction of a second.

I breathe in. She breathes out. So I can taste her breath, hot and laced with burning alcohol and the taste of weed. Hot, vile, disgusting. But god, I like it. A long tremor slides down my spine as her lips part a little wider. And then her lips collide with my own. And I'm kissing her quickly. For one, long, long moment the whole world seems to become silent. The empty air pressing too hard against my eardrums. One of her hands hovers next to my face, I can feel heat radiating from her palm, clashing against my cheek. And her lips are effortlessly soft, her breathing slows a little as she kisses me over and over. Her other hand collides with my waist.

And then the moment breaks into two, cracking right down the middle. And the noise in the room seems to erupt, as though someone has just turned up the volume to a deafening high. The boys both whoop, and someone on the other side of the room wolf-whistles appreciatively. Her lips move a little quicker, her tongue skating over my bottom lip. And in that second, I can feel the boiling drugs start to burst though my veins. Leaving me dizzy, breathless. Lights popping all around my, my heart suddenly hammering far too hard. My blood surging around my body, my breath coming in tiny gasps. My mouth dry. My head buzzing. The world around me slowly slipping away and becoming a vivid slur of bright lights and distorted, pounding noises.

And then I pull away from her. And she raises one hand, touching her bottom lips with her very fingertips. And her eyes are far too wide, as though she's confused, scared maybe. God, I know that I am. I wonder if she could feel how fast my heart was pounding. I can feel sweat spring to my hot palms as her hazel eyes fly slowly over my face and Oscar wraps one hand carelessly around her shoulders. Her eyes flicker to him, quickly taking in the grin cutting across his face as he looks at the pair of us. And then she looks at Ham. And I follow her gaze, watching her as she sees Ham's grin, almost identical to Oscar's smirk, revealing his front two teeth, both a little chipped.

The lights in the room twist into spiralling golden rainbows, creating a hundred thousand little burning rainbows at her back. Leaving her glowing like sunlight on bronze as she looks at her hands, her hands that collided delicately with my waist as we kissed. Her eyes down. Silently, I will her to look up at me. I want to look into her dilated pupils, and see something other than just half feral laughter dancing there.

And then, as though she can read my mind, she looks up, and smiles at me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow I am no longer in Rome.**

**Look at me fucking writing things.**

**Great.**

**I didn't proof read. This just keeps getting even fucking better.**

**Reviews are great I think I need them more than oxygen.**

**It's like 1am. Just read the goddamn chapter and try not to judge me.**

**Chapter 6**

I stride into the office, murmuring a word of thanks to the fumbling accountant who held the door open for me. I look down at my phone, checking for urgent messages I should've read last night, and then look up at my desk. There's no coffee waiting for me. I sigh, tossing my hair over my shoulders, kicking my bag roughly under the desk as I flop down into my high-backed leather office chair, spinning around a little so I'm facing away from the three walls made entirely from glass. So that I can't see the impossibly wide expanse of the river Thames spread out far below me, dotted with boats and cut up by the wriggling lines of bridges. The skyline is blurred by early morning smog, roughing the edges of the surgically straight, glass skyscrapers. Like something from a film of the future. I click my fingers to my receptionist, who scuttles towards me, clutching a file of papers to her chest. Silently, I wonder who employs this constant train of shy, mousy young girls, who each work for me for barely six months before handing in their notice. For almost a fraction of a second I wonder if I'm really so intolerable to work with. And then I remember that I really, really don't care at all.

"Give me some good news Rachel, give me some good news." I sigh, looking down at the fingerprints already smudging across my pristine black glass desk. With the cuff of my jacket, I rub at them a little, but only succeed smudging them even more. I sigh, and look up expectantly at the receptionist, who clears her throat nervously, her eyes flickering from my face to the sheaf of papers, and then back up to look at me.

"Our shares in Fairfax's have risen by almost 3.2 percent." Her voice is timid, as though I'll be angry. I'm not, of course. I feel something curiously close to elation growing quickly inside my chest.

"Brilliant. What else?" I say. None of my inner glowing hot pleasure cracking through to my icy exterior. My voice is perfectly balanced, level but cool. The receptionist clears her throat yet again, and I can't help but wonder if she does that before every single sentence.

"Oh...umm...the new rich list by The Times has been published, and you're-"

"I don't care, what else?" I cut her off before she can tell me exactly what place I am in the top five richest women under 30. Because I honestly don't really care. I'll look at the paper later, when I've got time to think about it properly, and inspect the photo they've published of me. Because they'll have published a picture, of course. They always do. But for now I just impatiently click my fingers at my nervous, stammering young receptionist.

"And...and we've got a new coffee machine in the board room." She blurts before she can think about it. I smile a little. Nodding at her as she blushes slightly.

"Great, much better, that'll do, I suppose." I nod again. And with a flick of my hand, I dismiss her carelessly, spinning around to face the panoramic view of London, hands aimlessly fumbling with the stack of papers on my desk, already stacked, highlighted and perfectly ordered. But she hovers by my side for a little longer. I flick my hand again, but she still hovers by my side. And my shoulders fall a little as she clears her throat yet again.

"And umm...a man called, he said he's your boyfriend...he said he'd been trying to call your mobile and he was getting desperate, he left a name-"

"I don't care." I murmur. And I'm silently surprised when I hear her clear her throat. Quickly coughing away her shyness, her voice a little stronger as she continues to speak.

"Do you want me to call him back?"

"No."

"He sounded worried..."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Oh...okay. He said-"

"I don't care what he said. I don't care."

"Oh."

"Don't disturb me this morning, and send any calls I get to finance or PR, they'll be able to deal with it. And if they can't, tell them to try to use their brains for once."

"Okay." She closes the office door silently behind herself as she unobtrusively slips away into the bustle of the outer office.

I just rest my head back against the cool leather of my chair, and I close my eyes. I feel tired. Not through lack of sleep though, I often pull all nighters, staying up until the grey, loneliest hours of the rainy city morning, until my eyes burn from reading budget report after damn budget report. Until my head aches and I need nothing but black coffee and two painkillers in the cool palm of my hand, and then I'm ready to face another ten hour day in the same office, crammed between the same four walls. Just me and the whirring computer and the restless view of the city.

But today, this morning, this is a deeper kind of tiredness. One that makes my bones ache and my skull throb and my chest hurt. I shake my head a little, as though I'm trying to shake away all the screaming doubts and the cutting indecision. I already know it won't work. Whatever I do, whatever I promise myself, I know it won't work. It never does. I tell myself that this boy will somehow, inexplicably be different. Better. Or maybe I'll become different, better. Cured. But it's bullshit, it's all bullshit. And at the end of the day, I know that I'll still be sleeping alone in my king-sized bed with its rich silk sheets, a cigarette trailing from my fingertips. Why? I don't know. That's the worst bit. I don't know why I have to do this to myself, over and over again, because I hate it. Maybe it scares me, the whole damn thing. The boyfriends and their honesty and their ability to be hurt. My ability to hurt them. When all the time, I feel nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. Apart from a blind panic as they innocently touch me. A guiding hand on my back, palm against my palm, fingertips tilting my chin into the light.

And then I remember the way she touches me. Fingertips feather light, palms cool. Quick, soft, confident. And I don't have to writhe away in fear, freezing shock. Because I like it. I like it, I like it, I...I open my eyes. Focussing quickly on the opposite bank of the river, blurred specks of human beings, hearts and lungs and thin skin coated in thick black jackets, dripping umbrellas. I watch as two of the smudges come together, and they embrace quickly. Like two raindrops on a window, colliding with each other and then merging into one. Running away down the cold glass.

I sigh. And I hate it. I hate it all.

* * *

"Wow." Oscar leans back, shaking his hair out of his eyes too quickly, so that his head seems to blur through the darkness as he moves. He looks from Evie, to me, and then back to his girlfriend again. Ham looks at me, his mouth a little open.

"Damn Lorraine" he murmurs, and the words seem to escape from his lips before he can think about them. Because a moment later he's blushing a little, avoiding everyone's gaze. Especially mine. Fuck.

"Lo" That's Evie, but I can't look at her as she speaks softly, almost whispering my name.

"What?" I say.

"You're a good kisser." She says coolly as she looks at me. Oscar's watching her, Ham is watching me. I move my hands to my lap, just brushing my sweating palms across the silky fabric of my dress. Pulling the hot sweat away from my boiling skin.

"Thanks" I shrug confidently, tilting my head to one side, nonchalantly, as though it's nothing at all. It is though. At least, I really hope it is. Does she mean it? I don't know. I don't know. But I do know that I can still feel my heart pounding. Good god. And I watch Evie as she touches her tongue to her lips, her eyes flying over my face. I glance down to the floor. I don't want her to know that I've never really kissed anyone before. I don't want her to know that I've never kissed someone properly, not like that, with soft breathing and tongues, making my blood fizz through my veins. I breathe out, and I can hear my racing heart filling the silence between us, sliding between our bodies and the pounding music. "I want a drink" I speak softly, because I need to say something, anything. Before the screaming voices in my head take over, goading me, persuading me, telling me to kiss her again. And again. And again.

"Same" Ham gets up too quickly, scrambling to his feet a little too hurriedly. Evie laughs at him as she almost trips, her laughter a little slurred maybe.

"He likes you" she's leaning forwards towards me, as though she doesn't want anyone else to hear, but she doesn't bother keeping her voice down. Her lips are maybe four inches, maybe three even, away from my own. I feel my pulse beginning to race again.

"No he doesn't" I mumble. And she giggles a little.

"Fuck me Lorraine, sometimes you're so goddamn blind. He's properly hard for you."

"Shut up" I say, and this time, like her, I don't bother keeping my voice down. She just laughs a little harder.

"Back me up here Oscar, isn't Ham totally down for Lorraine?" She twists around to look at her boyfriend, who doesn't make eye contact with her.

"Uh...yeah..." he grunts, not looking at me. Tilting his head back sharply, his Adam's apple rising and falling too quickly. And he's drinking straight from the can, bitter, foul, cheap larger that made his breath heavy and his hands heavier. His eyes are fixed on Evie's chest. I wish he wouldn't look at her like that. I wish she'd look at me like that instead. No. That's wrong. No. I wish that...I wish that...I just wish that she'd kiss me again.

* * *

It's later now. Oscar is lying, semi-conscious next to the sofa, murmuring as he drinks one final can, running one hand through his sweat-soaked hair, brushing it roughly out of his face.

"Ham's looking at you again." She giggles, tucking her legs up to her chin and pointing with a slightly shaking finger to where Ham leans against the wall, laughing with some other boy, who I vaguely recognised as being in the year above us at school. And Evie was right, he was looking at me. Yet again. His pale eyes meeting mine across the sweaty room. It's less crowded now, the music is perhaps a little lower. I don't know. But I do know that I don't like how he's looking at me. There's something hungry in his eyes, something that sets my nerves on edge. I just frown a little, and I look away from him. Evie's looking at me, and she's frowning too.

"What?" I murmur.

"Kiss me again."

"No! No...really?" There's a scary shadow of hope in my voice, a sliver of something other than shock and nervous embarrassment. I don't know what it is, I don't have a word for it yet, but I know that I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

"Come on. Just do it."

"Why?" I murmur, frowning a little. But the sparkling cocktail of alcohol and drugs has blurred up everything inside me. Until I don't know anything anymore.

"He'll like it."

"What, me snogging you? If he fancies me, wouldn't he want to be the one snogging me?"

"It's not like that, he won't be fucking jealous, will he? He's not stupid, and girls don't count."

"No, no way!"

"Jesus," she's holding my waist, pulling me towards her. God, I love the way she digs her nails into my side, her grip a little too rough. And I can feel myself beginning to give in, letting her hold my face in one hand, tipping my lips towards her own. Her lips are inches away from my own. But I'm still wriggling, protesting gently.

"For fuck's sake, no!" But I'm giggling a little now, nervous, cold laughter cutting through my chest. I look anywhere but her huge hazel eyes, and my gaze clashes against Oscar, laying unconscious on the floor, his breathing slightly too heavy. I close my eyes for a second, and then open them too quickly again.

"Stop being a frigid cow Lo, I promise you he'll like it, he'll like you, come on." She runs the side of her thumb nail confidently across my lips, her dark eyes hard and piercing. Sending butterflies rippling into my stomach. And I bite at my lips. And then, like an obedient little child, I open my mouth a little.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry it's been a while since I've written anything for this, I've been doing real life things.**

**Sorry this is bad.**

**Sorry.**

**Chapter 7**

The back of the Jaguar is cool. Careful air-conditioning. And I'm drowning in soft black leather. I flick through the hundreds of unread emails on my phone as the countryside scrolls past us. The car is silent, save for my driver's occasional dry cough, and the soft buzz of my phone as it receives yet another email. The sun flashes watery light into the car, but it's almost all filtered away by the thick blacked-out window. Leaving the world outside looking pale, as though all the colour has been carefully pulled away. It's nearly nine in the morning, and we've already been driving for over two hours. We're heading north, the countryside gradually getting wilder, the sky greyer. Even the low rumble of the tyres spinning over the tarmac sounds different. I'm bored. I drop my phone into my lap, wrap my hands together, palm to palm, and then detangle them again. I reach into my bag, fishing through the papers until I find the folder I want, and then carelessly skim-read my proposal again. My eyes flying over the paper, as I flip page after page of numbers and statistics. I don't really need to read it again, because I already know it all practically word-for-word. I sigh, and shake my hair away from my face. Part of me is nervous. That aching part of me that will forever be fifteen years old, and, underneath all of the cocky bravado and millions of pounds, that part of me is still just as scared now as I was all those years ago. I hurriedly run over what I want to say in my mind, but unspoken, the words all sound unrealistic and overly rehearsed. Fake.

I think about calling Mr Byrne...no, Michael, again, but I know that I can't face hearing his receptionist's irate voice telling me, yet again, that he isn't available to take my call. Could I call him back, or leave a message? I sigh impatiently, but I look down sharply as my phone rings again, hopeful that it might be Michael calling me back. My heart drops even lower as I read the name suddenly flashing on the screen. My ex-boyfriend. I feel a pang of...guilt, maybe, as I cut off the call. Maybe I don't have a name, a label, for my emotions, but I just know that I don't want to speak to him.

I lean forwards in my seat, clearing my throat a little before I speak to the driver. My voice sharp, because I'm tired and I'm bored and I'm just a little anxious. And this heady mix of emotions is making me feel on edge. "How much longer is this going to take?"

"An hour and forty, maybe an hour and a half if I do it fast."

I don't reply, instead I bite back any comment and I shake my head a little. And then I lean back in my seat, watching glossy cars and strips of wet tarmac flying past. I want to close my eyes, but I know I won't sleep. Too many thoughts twisting through my head. So I just let myself get lost in the cars we glide past, and the trees becoming a dull blur, and the raindrops on the windowpane skating together.

* * *

And I wait for my driver to open the door for me. Black peep-toe high heels. Hitting the cold tarmac. Bare calves. Perfectly toned. My monochrome dress, fitted white jacket. I sling my bag over my shoulder, and prop my phone between my shoulder and my ear. I hear the dialling tone, and then his receptionist's voice, burbling away at the other end of the line.

"Michael Byrne please" I say, my voice cool, strong. Because I'm really not a naughty schoolgirl anymore. "It's Lorraine Donnegan, again."

"Uhh...I'm sorry Miss...Donnegan, but he's very busy, I have give him your earlier messages..." Her voice trails away rather pathetically. Some boys stop their game of football and stare. But they're little more than children, faces heavy with acne, eyes heavy from staying up all night playing video games. I barely even glance at them as their football bounces dully on the tarmac, once, twice, discarded suddenly as it rolls around their ankles.

"That's what you said earlier but I still haven't heard back from him." I stride up the steps into the school, more heads turning as I walk. But I keep my chin up, and pretend that I haven't noticed.

"That's because he's very busy, like I said" His receptionist sounds bored now, angry. Thinking that I'm some irate parent or council wanker. I sigh, equally frustrated. I'm used to getting my own way now, I always get what I want. And right now, I want to see Michael Byrne. And some jumped-up, grotty little receptionist isn't going to stop me.

"Look, I'm not some cold-caller, I've known Michael a long time." I try to keep my voice patient, reasonable. I don't want to snap at her. But it's hard, as I jog up the stairs, I feel more boys' eyes on me, long, sweeping looks. Their ties loose around their necks, hands shoved in pockets, cocky smirk on their lips.

"Like I said, Miss Donnegan-" She puts unnecessary stress on my last name. She quite clearly has no idea who I am. One corner of my mouth just turns up a little. I like that. I like the lack of blind respect, quietly agreeing with every word I say.

"And like I told you, I made a special trip to see him." Damn right I did, I woke before six to get here.

"Yeah, well, all I can do is tell him that you've called again." I push open the office door.

"Or you could just tell him I'm here?" And I smile, properly now. Arching one eyebrow as she glances over me, more critically than the boys in the corridor had done. Her mouth drops open slowly. She lowers the chorded phone from her ear. Shocked, wide-eyed surprise. I roll my eyes and cross my arms across my chest.

And at that moment, the door to his office suddenly springs open. And Michael Byrne is standing right in front of me. Somehow unchanged. Just ten years older, his face suddenly lined, as though he had the whole world balancing on his shoulders. Or maybe just the weight of a struggling school, splashing as he desperately tries to keep its head above the water. But the same restless, irrepressible energy radiates from him.

"Lorraine?" There's surprise in his voice. His accent stronger than I remember it.

"Michael." I say complacently. And his eyes flicker from me to the girl beside him. And suddenly, inexplicably, I'm looking at her too. Because it's hard not to. And when I do tear my eyes away, I smile.

* * *

I roll onto my chest. I run my hands through my hair, coughing. I know that I feel sick, but I don't quite know why. Not yet. And I vaguely realise that I'm naked, and I semi-consciously pull my sheets a little higher over my body. I blink my eyes open, and try my best to focus on something. My pillows are smudged with my makeup, and I can feel vomit rising at the back of my throat. I cough, trying to cough away the vile taste of sick. I blink my eyes again. I can feel smoke burns at the back of my throat. And my hands are shaking.

"Fuuuuuuck." I breathe. I roll onto my side, reaching almost blindly for my phone. I blink at the time, my eyes blurring hopelessly. I almost register that there's half a dozen missed calls, and a lot of texts. And swear again under my breath. And I try desperately to remember what happened last night. I roll onto my back, and try my best to focus on the ceiling as it swims before my vision. There's a crack in the ceiling, still painted a sickening shade of pink because that's what my little sister wanted. I feel as though there's a crack running right through my skull too. And a matching crack through my chest. Oh my god.

I squeeze my eyes closed, tight. And I can remember the fizzing drugs on my tongue, warping up my mind. Making everything suddenly feel...different. I felt different. The room felt different. The air was heavier, hotter, stifling. Everyone's eyes on me, they burnt right through me. Scorching. And she felt different too. She felt...right. Or maybe she'd always felt right, and I was too blind to see it. No. The drugs didn't open my eyes, they made me brave. I'd always been too scared to admit it, and at that moment, I knew that I was more terrified than I had ever been in my whole life.

* * *

I walk through the school gates. And a boy smiles at me. He nudges his friend, and whispers something to him. And his friend just looks around sharply, a matching grin spreading across his face. One of the boys whistles. The other's grin widens a little. And I take a deep breath in, and look away. And I carry on walking, tilting my chin a little higher. I see Evie hovering by the back of the bike sheds, Oscar beside her, his chin tilted down as he speaks to her. I can't quite hear their words, but the low rise and fall of their voices.

"Oh, hey Lo!" She exclaims as she sees me, and she waves her hand a little, and Oscar glances up at me, almost smiles, and then suddenly seems to fade away into oblivion. Within seconds, he's gone.

"Evie," I start to speak, but she holds up her hands, instantly shushing me. I pretend I haven't noticed, and continue to speak. "Look, Evie-" I murmur, a little softer now as she takes a step towards me, holding out a hand.

"Come here." She says. She doesn't bother to lower her voice, her tone cool, commanding. Not scared or ashamed or...anything at all. I don't take her offered hand, but I let her lead me further away from the rest of the schoolyard, away from the rowdy year sevens and the staring boys, their footballs lying abandoned now on the wet tarmac.

"Evie, I think...I think..." I try desperately to string a sentence together, but somehow it doesn't seem to be working. She just looks at me for a moment, watches me struggle to force the sickening words from my tongue, and then she smiles a little, and somehow that smile makes me braver. And suddenly I can say it, and it's so, so easy. "I think everyone knows."

Her reply feels like a kick between my ribs. But her voice is cool and her eyes are steady, calm. And then she looks down to the ground. And I can't help but notice that her eyelashes are long and perfect and dark, and her skin is very nearly flawless. She rummages in her pockets and pulls out a lighter and a half empty packet of cigarettes. "Yeah, they do."

"How?" I murmur. She passes the packet of cigarettes to me before she bothers to reply. I shake my head a little, but she practically forces it into my hand. I flip the top of the packet, and take out a cigarette, propping that between my lips loosely. She lights her cigarette easily, her eyes focused down. She breathes in softly, and then breathes out, her cigarette clutched too tightly between her teeth. She leans closer to me, her eyes still not quite meeting my own. And she's so close that I can feel her breath and I can smell her perfume and the taste of the cigarettes on her tongue. And she lights my cigarette for me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Was supposed to be going out and now I'm not so I wrote this instead and I can just feel you judging this with your eyes. Please don't look at it. I mean, I know this is bad and I don't need you to tell me so it's probably just all round better for everyone if you don't read this. If you're going to read it, well that's your choice and I'm telling you now that I'm sorry. Thank you for being patient and lovely.**

**I'll shut up now. Sorry. (Can you tell I'm in a really fucking ****_great_**** mood?)**

**Love you all.**

**Chapter 8**

It's a long drive from London to Scotland. And it's late. Very late. A nagging, sleepy part of my brain seems to be steadily filling with dense cotton wool. And I almost wish that I'd got my driver to coolly chauffer me up the endless miles of M1 and the M6 motorways. I wriggle a little deeper into the Italian leather of my car, sigh, and glance with tired, stinging eyes, at the burning screen on the dashboard. I'd set off straight from work at 5 that evening, but I knew I'd be lucky to get to my new house in Greenock before midnight. Now the expected arrival time is two in the morning. God. I swerve into the fast lane. I don't bother looking, I don't bother indicating. I just swerve. Leaving the car behind me suddenly flashing his lights at me, temporarily blinding my view from my rear window. And he's sounding his horn too. I raise a finger from the steering wheel, and speed up. Watching the little hands on the dials of my dashboard begin to stand to attention. Ninety, a hundred, a hundred and twenty miles an hour. And the engine of my glossy red Ferrari is barely idling. The top speed is a hundred and eighty. I wonder if I could push it just a little faster. Almost flying down the almost deserted midnight motorway, streetlights little more than sheets of glowing air burning past me. I can feel the adrenaline just beginning to kick through my veins...A hundred and thirty miles an hour. A ripple of hot happiness as I'm accelerating out of all control. Because this could kill me in an instant. One second, one touch of the steering wheel, and, god, I'm still going faster...A hundred and forty...

No. I start to slow. And I tell myself to stop being so goddamn stupid. The lights are moving slower now. And my heart is still hammering away inside my chest. I wriggle a little, fixing my chin up and trying my very, very hardest to think of nothing but the long drive that's still ahead of me. It's nearly nine in the evening. The road is dark, the sky above me even darker. None of London's hazy glow, cast into the sky by million upon million of electric lightbulbs. Setting the heavens alight. Up here it's darker, and the sky is a perfect, icy clear black. Making it feel later than it really is. From the endless, velvety darkness of the sky, it could easily be midnight at least. Not quite the hazy early hours of the morning though. Not yet. I tap my nails against the steering wheel and breathe impatiently through my nose.

And it feels as though I've still got a lifetime of driving ahead of me tonight. I try to count the hours in my head. Five. Five hours. Maybe more. Already I feel as though tiny but overwhelmingly heavy weights have been attached to the corners of my eyes. I just hope that the removal men have tidied up after themselves. Left me a bed, not just a bare mattress propped up against a wall. My phone buzzes a little, the screen lighting up. I don't want to tear my eyes away from the road, but I do anyway. It might be important. It might be the office, or it might be Michael, or it might perhaps be my American sales team. But it's not. It's not important. It's my sister. So I ignore it, and let it ring off. And it does make me feel a little sad. Sad that I'd far rather be here on my own, with nothing but the glossy tarmac, dark sky and even darker thoughts for company, than speak to my own sister. The thought sends a sad chill down my back, and I shiver a little. Thinking about turning up the air-conditioning. The cold will help to keep me awake perhaps, keep my senses finely tuned and alert. Damn, what I really want is a strong black coffee and a cigarette. But I know I won't have either. I hate smoking in my car and I don't want to delay my journey by stopping in a motorway service station filled with leering lorry drivers and stressed young families. And the coffee they flog there is invariably glorified, caffeinated dishwater. Instead, I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, and think about the future I could build for myself in a school in western Scotland. Leaving my sister and my mother four hundred miles behind me. The only family I've got. I promised Sonya I'd call her. I'm already not doing a great job of keeping that promise. But, that's what promises do, isn't it? Get broken, eventually.

Purely to distract myself, I turn on the radio.

"...and hearts of fire grow cold, we swore blood brothers against-"

And I turn it off once again. I don't want to hear a sad song. Or a happy song. A song with lyrics that make me realise not only what I've got, but precisely what I'm missing. And what I really want is something that will seep into my veins and thin my pounding blood like numbing alcohol. God, I need a drink. I look at my steady hands pressing against the steering wheel and wonder, feeling oddly detached, if I have a problem. Maybe I should see a shrink about it. That's what people do in the city. Money advice and career specialists and head-doctors who tell you that you're just as sad as everyone else in the world. And relationship counselling. At least that's one kind of professional help I seriously doubt I'll ever need. Or, maybe more accurately, I'll never have a relationship, let alone one I'm willing to pay someone to help me sort out.

I stretch back in the thick, cream leather seat and think about therapy. Do you just stretch back on some outdated doctor's bench, and let your heart spill open? Open some door somewhere within yourself, and let all the darkest, worst things escape from between my lips. God, it must be hell. I tap an unsteady rhythm on the steering wheel with my fingernails. I wonder for a moment what I'd say, where I'd begin. They might ask you about previous relationships perhaps.

Previous relationships.

A long train of perfectly suitable, kind, well educated young men. Who took me out to Michelin Starred French restaurants and London's finest wine bars. Who wore Armani suits and Calvin Klein aftershave and more hair-product than I do. My fingernails still tapping out that rhythm. Spinning round and round my head. Who else? Not anyone before the suited and thoroughly well-bred city boys. Nobody. Nobody at all. Not really. Apart from her.

* * *

And we're on the school bus. She's silent, and I'm sitting next to her. And it's just me and her. Oscar and Ham and all the others have left. And then I realise she's watching some boys at the very back of the bus, the way they don't bother to hide their grins. Vaguely, I think I recognise them from school. They're in the year above us perhaps. I'm not sure. Maybe I should spend less time smoking behind the bike sheds with Evie, and more time watching the older boys under my eyelashes from across the dinner hall. And then, like her, I watch them for an instant. The way their wide mouths move to shape words I can't hear, but I can read their lips.

"What're they saying?" I ask her, my voice wondrously confident. For a second, I shock myself into silence. I sound so normal. I barely recognise my own voice, it's so far from the burning inner turmoil spinning around my throat. Slowly tightening. And then I gulp back my nerves, and continue to speak. "Are they talking about us?"

And she looks at me, half a grin spreading across her face as our eyes meet. A slow smile. Complacent, cocky, the kind of look that boys shoot at me from across the classroom. Sending my stomach curling into nervous butterflies. God, her hazel eyes and the few freckles flaked across her nose, which wrinkles up a little as she smiles.

"Hold my hand." She mutters, stretching out her palm appealingly towards me. I quickly bat away her outstretched hand, and turn away from her a little.

"No-" I mutter, crossing my arms protectively across my chest. The smile slides from her lips, and almost instantly she's pouting at me, the thick line between her eyebrows telling me she's very nearly serious,

"Come on Lo, stop being such a frigid bitch-" she says, her voice a little louder this time. Something in her eyes sparkling, glinting.

"They're going to think..." I hiss, my breath raspy as I jab one finger in the direction of the boys on the back seat.

"Yeah, what're they going to think?" She's grinning again, raising one eyebrow jauntily as she speaks. Then she glances back at them, her bottom lip held tight between her teeth. Blood rushing from her flesh.

"They're going to think we're, like, gay!" I hiss through my teeth. She's still got her eyes fixed on the boys, as though I weren't even there. I feel like grasping her shin and forcing her to meet my gaze. Or maybe grasping her chin and kissing-

No. No. She's your best friend. Don't think things like that. That's sick. She's my friend. Don't ever think like that-

"For fuck's sake Evie, look at me!" I just take my boiling frustration out on her, the words escaping from my throat with more force than I originally intended. I wonder if the whole rest of the bus heard my words. But I don't really care, because Evie is looking down at my hands, looping her fingers through my own. And I'm suddenly powerless to resist or jerk my hand away. Because her palm is cool and her skin is soft as she squeezes my hand reassuringly for an instant. She's holding my palm to her palm, our entwined hands resting on the scratchy fabric of the seats, where no-one can see, not even the boys at the back of the bus. And she's looking coolly out of the window, her eyes clear, her gaze steady. I wonder if she hates me a little for holding her hand so tight. Should I loosen my grip a little? I don't know. I've never really held anyone's hand before, not like this. Not when my heart is hammering so fast I'm terrified my palm will be slicked with the thinnest film of cool sweat. But she's not wriggling uncomfortably, trying to peel her palm away from my own. So maybe it's okay.

I realise that my shoulders are knotted, impossibly tense. I try to relax a little, sinking lower in my seat. She glances at me. Then looks resolutely out of the window again.

"See, not that bad is it?" She murmurs, arching one eyebrow even though she isn't looking at me. I watch her pupils blur as she watches dripping wet tower blocks fly past us.

"Nah" I murmur. She drops her head onto my shoulder, her long hair pouring down my back. I can feel her breath on my neck, and I know she's watching the cars below us scoot through the rush hour traffic. "Not that bad at all."

* * *

It's half past two in the morning. And I pull my Ferrari slowly into the kerb. In the end I caved in and stopped for fuel for the car and some much needed coffee for myself. But that caffeine buzz has well and truly worn off now, and I don't feel even nearly ready to go into the house and face the inevitable mess the removal men have left in their wake. Slowly, reluctantly, I get out of the car, stretching my back a little. Flexing my shoulder blades. My whole body seems tense, as though all my muscles have been screwed up like discarded pieces of paper. I sigh, shake my hair over my shoulders and tell myself, sternly, to get a fucking grip. Relax. Think straight.

It's been raining for the past couple of hours, tiny, lazy raindrops spitting onto my windscreen. Not oily, heavy city rain. Something much more refreshing. Wet grass and air thick with sea salt. Tiny particles of spray from the waves far below me seeming to get stuck in my lungs, clinging to my body. And with my newly cut house keys jangling in my hand, I walk slowly through the gate. My hand on the thick, slightly rusty wrought iron. Rough, undoubtedly real under my outstretched fingertips. Looking up at my tall, three story, seafront house, I feel good. The edge of the keys are still perfect, sharp. Even the air up here feels oddly fresh. New. This feels like a new start. And I like that.

A new project, a new set of challenges. New people, new faces. I don't try very hard to push the image of Michael's smiling colleague's face from my mind. For a moment her face seems to dance before my drooping eyes. What was her name again? Sian. The pretty, smiling young woman who'd laughed so easily. Sian. I'd liked her smile, her eyes. Her sharp, attentive interest. Yeah, this would be much better than stuck in an office in London, doing something I already know I'm exceptionally good at. Letting boring, educated men fall head-over-heels in love with me, and watching in aghast silence as they stumble. I wouldn't let that happen anymore. I'm tired of the curling embarrassment I feel churning in my stomach as they try to touch me. Uncomfortably blushing, sliding away from them. The disconnected, cold feeling that floods over me as I ignore their calls. And texts. And emails. And my ability to keep perfectly indifferent throughout it all, so good at masking my feelings that sometimes I can even fool myself. Not anymore. This would be something different. I could be single, happy, successful. The idea makes my head spin, in a good way, of course. I'm tired through and through, right to the dull ache in my bones. But at the same time, I feel good.


	9. Chapter 9

**Don't blame me, I don't plan this shit.**

**Soz it has taken me several short lifetimes to get round to writing this. I've been very busy being sad.**

**And nothing really happens in this chapter. And it's shite.**

**Shit goes down next chapter though. I know this because I've already written it.**

**Thanks for the comments and that.**

**Goodnight. **

**(ALSO, I realised the other day that I have nEVER written like ANYTHING in the 3rd person. So if anyone has any one-shot suggestions, (like an entire plot, I'm especially shite at thinking up plots) that's great cos I need to practice that 3rd person shite. PM me or leave a comment idk)**

**Chapter 9**

The sound of the bell. Children shouting in the corridors. Kettle boiling in the staffroom. Just another school day morning. I'm sitting in the staffroom, waiting a little less than patiently for Michael to arrive. Because he's late this morning. And the teachers seem to be taking it in turns to fire filthy looks at the back of my head. They already don't like me, I know they don't. I don't care. And I pretend that I don't feel them though, and straighten my back a little as I ruffle my stack of textbook order forms nonchalantly. And then glance at the time. And sigh again. Where is Michael? I hate this waiting around, doing nothing at all. I can feel my eyes beginning to sag already as I skim over the same form for the tenth time. Bored and tired and bored and tired and stressed. Who does Michael think he is, leaving me waiting like this? Doesn't he know that I have a hundred other things I should be doing? And then, all of a sudden, I'm bored of waiting for him. Getting up, brushing minute specks of dust from my tight leather skirt, and picking up my briefcase. Shaking my hair over my shoulders as I swing around.

"Is our glorious leader not gracing us with his presence this morning?" Grantly shakes his head and never raises his bloodshot eyes from his newspaper.

"Haven't you got a class to teach Grantly?" I spit over my shoulder. I'm really not in the mood for his complaining this morning.

"It's more like babysitting with those children, they show no interest whatsoever in-" I don't bother waiting around to hear the end of his sentence. I leave the staffroom door to slam shut behind me.

And as I walk through the unnervingly quiet corridors, I realise that I like the school. I like the way it feels. On the surface, it's perfect. Still smelling of paint, everything squeaky clean. Brand new, like the uniforms the kids are wearing. Everything just so. Just how I wanted it to be. My vision, suddenly a reality. And I'm good at it, I know I am. I'm good at running the school, funding the school. Just how I thought I would be. I've never once doubted that.

"Hey Lorraine" She's smiling at me. Sian. Her eyes cool, steady, glancing over me. I think her eyes narrow a fraction as she skims over my tight black leather skirt. Black lace top. My bottom lip clutched between my teeth as I frown.

"Do you know where Michael is, he was supposed to be meeting me and he's not picking up his goddamn fucking phone." I cut straight to the point. I've never been very good with small talk, and right now, this is no exception.

"No, I'm sorry." She murmurs. For a second I'm worried that she's shocked by my language, but then she smiles gently at me, raising one eyebrow. "Not having a good morning?"

"Oh, okay, I'm okay. I'd be a damn sight better if Michael would-"

"Not be Michael?" She laughs a little as she speaks. "Have you tried his office yet?"

"He said the staffroom-"

"He'll have forgotten. You know men, they can't remember anything unless they're being permanently reminded." She rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, I know," I try to smile. An exasperated, tired smile, mirroring the grin spread across her cheeks. My palms feel hot. My throat feels a little dry. I wonder, in an oddly detached way, if I'm ill. "Thanks Sian" I murmur as she walks quickly away. I'm pulling my phone from my pocket and frowning as I pretend to read through a message. I can hear her heels retreating down the corridor. And I realise that I'm breathing deeply, as though I've been running. In through my nose, out through my trembling lips. Letting my suddenly hammering heartbeat slow a little. Nearly at its normal speed. Nearly normal...And suddenly I turn to follow her. Slipping my phone back into my pocket. My voice a cheap imitation of my normally oh-so-casual drawl. "Hold on, in fact, I don't need Michael, you'll know-"

"I should get to registration, my year 10s will be running wild-" She pauses, turning to look at me, rolling her eyes, shaking her head a little.

"I'm sure they can live without the riot police for a minute." She grins as I speak. And I feel as though I've just gulped back a mouthful of burning coffee, igniting little fiery butterflies in my stomach. Because...because...I don't know why. But they make me feel hot, uncomfortable. So I just bite them away. "Here, does this order of textbooks for the labs look okay? I was going to ask Michael, but-" I fish the paperwork from my briefcase. She looks at it, dark eyes blurring as she skims over the figures.

"Yeah, that looks good, I'd get fewer A2 books here-" she points to it, her eyes flickering from the paper up to my face, seeking my approval. "And maybe ten more for the GCSE classes, because some kids will lose them." She grins as she passes the order forms back to me.

"Thank you, I'm glad I checked now." I murmur, and I muster a smile. My shoulders falling a little. But I'm internally screaming at myself. I feel as though the bottom has been kicked out of my sparkly little world. How could I not know that? How could I be so stupid? Of course I should factor in some spares, of course kids will lose them, of course..."Thanks Sian" I say, still smiling. It takes more than just a little effort. But I think she sees straight through it. God, I hate those women who can read me like a book.

"You're doing a really great job here." She looks up as she speaks gently, and she's taking a step closer to me, jerking her head a little. Indicating not just the textbook order, but the whole school. "You know that, right?" She raises an eyebrow, and reaches out to touch my arm. And my body tenses a little, my muscles tightening nervously, ready for that tiny glimpse of contact. My heart skipping a beat. Uncomfortable, jumping palpitations. But her palm doesn't ever quite collide with the thick lace of my top. Because...

"Of course she knows it, nobody has a bigger ego than Lorraine Donnegan." Michael's voice is loud, and he strides down the corridor towards us.

"I was looking for you" I frown, turning to him. Something within me feels as though it's lost in a roaring, terrifying freefall. And Sian is still right beside me.

"I'm here now." He spreads his hands out in front of him. Smiling that ridiculous smug smile. I roll my eyes, glancing at Sian. Hoping to exchange an exasperated, tired glance. But she's looking at him as though he's something miraculous. I cross my arms across my chest.

"I don't need you now." I sigh, my voice perhaps a little too abrupt, and I turn back to Sian, smiling again. "Thanks for the help, I'll let you get back to your year 10s"

"See you later" she grins. I don't reply. I just nod, and smile right back.

* * *

I can't sleep. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to sleep again. Every time I close my eyes, all I can think about is her. Kissing her. The way she held my hand. The way the invisible hairs on the back of my neck prickled as she looked at me. And the same scenes spin round and round my head. Dizzyingly fast, scarily repetitive. Always accompanied by the same churning, shame-filled sickness in my stomach. The same painful burning in my chest. Making it hard for me to breathe, harder for me to move. So I lay there in the darkness. Her name. Her face. Her eyes. Her smile. Her oddly breathless, exhilarated laugh that cuts up her throat and makes her toss her head back. I've never really thought about what it would be like to lose my mind. But this feels as though I could be.

I practically fall out of bed. And fumble blindly around in the dark for in my school bag. Looking for my cigarettes. My mum would kill me if she found me doing this. My little sister would just look at me, her vacant eyes wide open in something blank that could perhaps be translated as shock. If me smoking would shock them, I don't even dare to imagine what they'd think of me if they could read my mind right now. If my mum could somehow know...somehow...know.

I realise that I'm curled into a ball, shaking on my bedroom floor. I run a trembling hand through my rough blonde curls, a little greasy perhaps, but I'm raking it away from my face.

Maybe I just need to relax. I just need to think of anything, anything but her. So I quickly pull my bag open. The thin packet of tobacco. The thin plastic lighter. The impossibly thin cigarette papers. And I don't bother with a filter. My hands shake a little as I pinch the tobacco, and I roll a cigarette. And I lick along the paper. And I take a deep breath in. Attempting to steady myself. Holding it between my thumb and forefinger. Ignoring my shaking hands.

I open the window. Letting the freezing cold night air crowd into the room. And I perch on the windowsill, tugging my knees up to my chin. I cup the lighter in my hand, holding a cigarette between my teeth. Lighting up. Breathing in. And the scent of smoke, the taste, the delicious, sickening warmth as the burning smoke fills my mouth, it all reminds me of her. I pull the thin cigarette from between my teeth, and I breathe out.

And I close my eyes. And suddenly, she's everywhere. And she's heartstoppingly beautiful. I know she is. All the boys, they all know that she's beautiful too. That's why they like her so much. Everyone knows she's beautiful. So it's...it's okay for me to think so too. She's beautiful. It's just a fact. I shrink into the shadows, uncurling one leg and swinging my foot against the rough brick of the wall. And I'm breathing out smoke. And breathing in clear, cold night air. Remembering the way she watched me. I can remember it almost perfectly. Photographic quality, crystal sharp. There's no hunger in her face. No affection. Nothing at all. Her eyes are oddly blank. Emotionless.

I wonder now what she sees when she looks at me. Can she read something, anything in my eyes? Are all my thoughts delicately threaded through my palest blue irises? The thought makes me feel hot and cold all over, crawling over my flesh. I take another drag. And hold the smoke in my chest for a little longer.

I shouldn't be feeling like this.

We kissed.

This is so, so wrong.

We kissed.

She's my best friend.

We kissed.

Oscar. What about Oscar?

We kissed.

She likes boys.

We kissed.

I like...boys...

We kissed. That's the cold, horrible reality of it. I breathe out. Exhale. It's so easy. Hot smoke. And that kiss, it was hot too. And it was beautiful and I could feel her breathing and her hand was on my waist and it set my tiny little world on fire. Yes, we kissed, and I...I undoubtedly liked it. And I'm suddenly almost certain that I'd like to do it again.

I rest my head back against the window-frame. I try to register this. I try to understand that I liked it. We kissed and I liked it and now...and now... and now I mostly just hate myself. I take a long drag. To steady my shaking, crumbling thoughts. Breathing out curl after curl of smoke. Watching it hover for an instant in the air. Not quite real, fading away so fast. Wispy, tiny tendrils just lapping from my lips now. I flick away the ash from my cigarette. It burns as it falls back into the darkness.

And as it falls, the darkness seems to open up, and close in around it. Swallowing it back into dark infinity.

And suddenly I'm crying helplessly. And I choke back a quiet sob. Holding the back of my hand against my mouth, cigarette still trailing from between my first and middle fingers. My lips colliding too fast with my own skin. And I bite down. Hard. So hard it brings yet more tears springing to my already sodden eyes. Chocking, fighting against my tears. Silent. Leaving a hot red imprint of my own teeth in my flesh.


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay so this week I was within like milliseconds of deleting this fic and then I just remembered I wrote this chapter agesssss ago, so I might as well upload it. But I might like re-write this fic or something, or I had an idea that I might like delete it and then sum the whole goddamn thing up in like one properly long chapter. I don't know though. Suggestions are greatly appreciated as I have no ideas about anything ever. Yeah. Okay. Bye.**

**Also, this is all like from modern day Lorraine's POV, next chapter will all be baby Lorraine.**

**Chapter 10**

"Morning campers" I'm smiling, striding into the staffroom. Acting confident, cocky, because I'm nervous. Sian looks up, and smiles. And suddenly, my smile becomes genuine. I left her a voicemail last night, and almost instantly regretted it. And she didn't return my call. I think I cocked up, I think perhaps I made it sound like a date. It's not. It's not, it's not. I just need a plus-one. A plus-one to a swanky charity auction, all cool drinks and nice dresses and suited waiters. That's all. And I could've asked Michael. But I didn't. Because...because...(my heart hammers to even admit it to myself,) because I'd rather take Sian.

"Did you get my voicemail?" I ask her, making sure that my tone is precisely nothing but confident and friendly. I tilt my head to one side a little, acting precisely as though I don't care if she comes or doesn't. I tell myself I don't care too.

"Yes, I did. And I don't think I can make it tonight..." My eyes flicker over her. I sigh, but she's still smiling, apologetically now. Lowering her eyebrows, and I watch her as she shrugs a little. My heart sinks like a lead balloon, but my smile is still fixed to my lips.

"Oh, no go on, it'd be a right laugh! Five star hotel, a few local celebs?" I tilt my head to one side, gently persuasive. I know how to get what I want. And I want her. No. Not. Her. I want her to come to the goddamn function with me. That's. All.

"What's this?" Tom frowns, leans forwards a little, suddenly interested. Almost automatically, I lean away from him and towards Sian.

"A charity auction, tonight, I need a plus-one," and I turn back to Sian. My voice gentle and persuasive, but not wanting to take no for an answer. Maybe I'm a little too used to getting my own way."And you never know, you might bag yourself a footballer."

"What, another one?" she rolls her eyes at me. And then smiles a little. My heart leaps as she sounds less than enthusiastic.

"Please, come on" I smile. My heart flutters a little now, nervous maybe. Am I nervous? I don't know.

"You know what, go on, I might" she grins. I don't know if I've persuaded her by the allure of footballers, or by my nagging, but either way, it's worked. And I grin right back at her.

"Brilliant, I'll text you" I smile as I leave. And Michael is just entering the staffroom, just getting ready to speak to his staff in the morning. And I kiss him quickly on the cheek, leaving him hovering in the doorway, frowning. Confused. His head perhaps spinning from this rare show of affection from me.

Sitting in the back of the taxi, I straighten out my skirt a little, wriggling nervously in my seat. I glance down at myself. For what seems like the millionth time in the past hour, I'm taking apart every inch of my appearance. Blonde curls falling down over my shoulders. I'm not sure if I should wear my hair up, or leave it curling down my back. Do I look too young with my hair down in loose curls like this? Maybe I should tie it up. Maybe I don't look as though I've made enough of an effort. Maybe I look too dressed up. I don't know. I never know what to wear to events like this. My dress is black Valentino, almost knee length. Tight, thick lace, clinging to my body, cut high around my neck. Fitted black jacket thrown around my shoulders, Cavalli, of course. High shoulders, the kind of impeccable cut that only a genius could tailor. Black Alexander McQueen studded clutch bag held in my lap. I'm holding it too tight in my slightly sweaty palm. Gold knuckle-duster, black diamond skulls. My shoes, gold Oscar de la Renta heels, six, no maybe seven inches high. Already making the balls of my feet ache dully.

Nude lips, smoky eyes. My nails natural, coated in clear polish. Are they too short? I look down, inspecting my hands. Impossibly relieved that they're not shaking. My perfume is Calvin Klein. No jewellery. And I'm nervous. I look out of the window, watching the bright lights fly past.

And I reach into my bag, fumbling for my phone. Glancing at the screen. I'm going to be late. Because I spent too long choosing an outfit. And then getting changed. And then changing again. Leaving clothes in abandoned, screwed up piles all over my bedroom floor, as though I were a teenager again. And I feel like a teenager too. I feel hot, nervous. And I don't know why. Because we'll have a nice evening.

She's standing alone, hovering near the bar. The ceiling is high, white, towering above us like a cathedral reaching to heaven. The highly-polished parquet floor and the champagne glasses on each table are already glistening in the light from white crystal chandeliers. There are tables dotted around the huge circular room, all white tablecloths and high-backed chairs, collecting around a raised stage at the opposite end of the hall. A few years ago, this would've been miles out of my comfort zone. Tonight, this is just another evening.

"Hey, sorry, am I late?" I smile at her, leaning forwards to kiss her cheek. My lips collide softly with her cheekbone. I inhale her perfume. Soft, somehow spicy. I like it. She looks pretty too, her dress very nearly white, knee-length and clinging tight to her body. And I pull away, smiling confidently. She smiles back, and shakes her head. I know I'm a little late, but I was hoping that she'd be later, or wouldn't notice. And I'm late because I spent too long hovering indecisively in my walk-in wardrobe, choosing between gold sequinned McQueen and black lace Valentino. I chose the Valentino.

"No, it's fine, I just haven't got the hang of this 'fashionably late' thing yet" she smiles. She looks so pretty. All glossy, wet-look smoky eyes and matt lipstick. I make a mental note to ask her what lipstick she's wearing, where she bought it, how it would taste-

"Here, let me get you a drink" I glance away from her, towards a waist-coated young waiter. I raise one eyebrow, nodding to him and indicating him to refill her glass.

"Thanks" she smiles. Genuinely. And then smiles a little wider as the waiter seemingly floats towards her and refills her glass. I suppose he's good looking, in a way. Dark eyes and a razor sharp jawline and a carefully pressed white shirt.

"Well, this is a bit better than looking after year 11 and their chemistry coursework" she's smiling, beginning to relax a little.

"Who did you leave doing it?" I say, leading her over to a table as the room quickly begins to fill up around us. She sits next to me, champagne flute in hand, crossing her legs and looking away from me, up to the stage, the glossy wood criss-crossed with thick black wires.

"Michael volunteered, said he wasn't doing anything else. Did he not want to come to this?" She's still not looking at me, glancing around the room instead, her dark eyes taking absolutely everything in. Absolutely everything, apart from me.

"It's hardly really his thing is it? I'm sure he'd prefer to...inspire a new generation" I shrug it off, making her laugh. Taking a quick sip of my drink as I feel sweat just begin to spring to my palms. I'm lying, because in reality I hadn't even asked him. "So, come on, spotted any hot footballers yet?" I raise my eyebrows, and adeptly change the subject. She looks at me for a second in silence, her eyes dancing in the glittering chandelier light, before glancing around the room.

"Not yet" she pretends to pout, and then rolls her eyes at me. The young waiter tops up her glass, and mine too. I smile at him as he leaves, the briefest moment of eye-contact before his dark gaze flits just once over my body. I think my skin crawls. She sips her drink, and watches someone at the other side of the room. I want to know who she's watching. "But do you really think I want another footballer?" She continues as she rolls her eyes.

"You don't? What little girl doesn't grow up dreaming of being a WAG?" I laugh.

"God, no" she shakes her head, smiling a little, sadly maybe. I smile back. And then she continues "I wanted to be a cat, then an explorer, then a princess, never a footballer's wife."

"Well, cheers to that" I joke, and raise my glass, and she laughs. And drinks.

After the auction. Some back room somewhere. It's dark in here, the lights turned down a little too low. The air smells of alcohol and expensive perfumes and aftershaves blending messily together. And I'm a little drunk. Drunk enough not to mind a man's hand on the small of my back. His palm hot against my bare skin. His sticky touch doesn't make my skin crawl. Because I've got a glass of champagne in one hand, poker chips in the other. My head just comfortably fuzzy, I'm drunk enough to notice, but not to care. My black dress is tight, skimming over my thighs. Making it almost hard for me to breathe. I feel lightheaded, a little dizzy. But that's okay. I lean across the table, collecting up a small stack of the glossy plastic chips, and I almost smile. The man across the poker table wolf-whistles under his breath, his eyes everywhere, but I ignore him. I just sip a little more champagne, and feel the bubbles fizz and burst, exploding just behind my nose.

"Winning streak" the man beside me smiles, with just the corner of his mouth moving, a lazy, sneering grin. Cocky, confident. As though he's the hottest thing alive and he knows it. He is...hot. Not attractive though. His dark hair is cropped short, stubble lining his angular jawline, his greenish eyes a little bloodshot. His aftershave is nice, cool, a little salty maybe. His palm is soft on my back. And his eyes skirt over my body. I pretend that I haven't noticed him looking at me, and spin a poker chip between my fingers.

"I'm multi-talented" I say, my face serious, my voice light. He laughs, his hand on my back tightening a little. Possessively. My heart flips, not in a hot, fluttery way, but instead like a heavy, sickening way. Making hot bile jump to the back of my throat. God. Control. I have to be in control. And I need a bit more to drink. I tip my head back, and finish the now-lukewarm champagne. I can't help but wonder where Sian is. I'm not worried exactly, but my skin crawls a little at the thought of some sleazy, drunk man touching her, talking to her like this.

"Someone get the lady another drink" he laughs, holding his hand up and clicking carelessly for a waiter, who begins to slowly work his way through the crowd towards us. He turns back towards me. "So Miss Donnegan-" He starts to speak confidently, but I cut him off too quickly. My voice cold, drenched in cool surprise.

"You know my name?" I say, starting in slightly, moving away from him a little. My eyes widening as I look at him, trying desperately to recognise him. I don't. There's no kick of recognition. Nothing. I have no idea who he is. I wonder where I met him before.

"We all know your name." He smiles, as though it's a compliment. Maybe it is. I don't know. He's got a nice smile. Almost too nice. All expensive dental work and teeth whitening and not drinking too much coffee.

"Oh." I suppose they all did. I wonder who exactly 'we' was. But I don't really care. I look up at him. "I don't know yours." It's not a question, because I honestly didn't care what his name was. I looked up at him, my eyes wide and rose-tinted with alcohol, and wondered how inoffensive he would be in bed. I wanted to know if he'd insist on kissing me, or if I could close my eyes and think of-

No.

"Lorraine!"

That's her.

"Excuse us" She's suddenly beside me, smiling at the man beside me, before grabbing my hand and leading me a little further away from the poker table. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't find you anywhere, I think I should get home now, I've got work tomorrow-" She keeps her voice low, aware that the man I was drinking with earlier is still watching me, his eyes hot on my body. And she's still holding my hand. Still. Holding. My. Hand.

I'm not sure why, but I think my heart stops.

And somehow, miraculously, I can still speak.

"No, come on, stay a bit longer, I've hardly seen you all night." I'm shocked by the cool, persuasive tone in my voice. Perfectly controlled. Because it feels as though everything inside me is quickly becoming unravelled. Spinning out of control.

"I don't want to be too hungover and tired tomorrow" she blinks, and smiles rather apologetically. And I don't think I've never met someone so young and so pretty and yet so resolutely sensible before. And then she drops my hand, looking down and then away.

And now we're waiting on the kerb together, waiting for her taxi. The night is cool, but the booze still pumping through my veins keeps me warm. I look up to the sky, the glowing haze on the horizon that's either the rising sun or Glasgow and I'm not sure which. There's a scattered spectrum of silver and gold light spread across the wet pavement. The faint click of my heels as I take the tiniest step towards her. And then my eyes are almost magnetically drawn to her. And she brushes her hair out of her face. And she's smiling. God help me.

"Thanks Lorraine, I've had a great evening." She's smiling, looking down at her feet. And then glancing up at me. Knocking all the breath from my chest. I dig my fingernails into my palms.

"Better than, what was it again, GCSE revision?" My accent sounds somehow faulty out here. Laughable. Too far out of place. My knuckles white.

"Coursework, and yeah, just a little better"

"Maybe we should do it again some time?" I suggest it quietly. Shocking even myself. And she looks up at me sharply, raising one eyebrow sceptically. There's a moment of crushing, all-consuming tension, when I can hardly breathe. And then she smiles.

"How many of these event...event things do you get invited to?" She laughs. That's when I realise just how close she is. I can feel her hot breath. On my skin. I can feel my heart racing. Pumping out any coherent thought. The rest is a long, drawn out blur.

I think I mumble something. And I think I shrug.

It's like standing on the edge of a cliff. That first leap is the worst. The rest is just like flying. That's what I tell myself. What the vodka and champagne are telling me. That's what I think as I lean towards her.

And the second my lips collide with hers, I know it's a big mistake.

There's one moment. One breathtaking moment. When her lips are as soft as high heaven and send burning chills through my body sent straight from blistering hell.

And then it's over. And it's all gone wrong.

Left splintered on the light-strewn pavement.

Because she breathes in. Gasps maybe. In shock. Her breath against my lips. And then she pulls away from me. Too quickly. Her eyes flying far too clearly over my face. She's way, way too sober. Stone cold sober. And I feel cold too, cold and sick.

"L-Lorraine-" She breathes out. Frowning. I can hear confusion threading through her voice. Cold confusion.

"God, god, I'm sorry" I gasp. My hand flying to cover my mouth. As though I could somehow take back what had just happened."I'm so sorry"

"W-what the hell?" she frowns. Frowning, confused. The hot confusion in her voice making her tongue suddenly sharper. Blurring away her normal gentle tone. Leaving something raw, shocked. Something I've never heard before. Her eyes fixed on mine. Flickering slightly as she tries to read my thoughts on my face. I know I'm blushing violently. I can feel the blood leaping to my cheeks. And I'm glad that it's dark.

"I'm so sorry-" I repeat those words, as if they would change anything. As if apologising will take back what has just happened. And then I just look at her. Silence stretching out between us. And for one crazy, mad moment, I think that she might lean forwards again, and kiss me. Her eyes are focusing on my eyes. I wish she'd look at my lips. And lean forwards towards me again.

But she just frowns, her lips parting. Shaping soundless words through the night air. And I quickly turn away from her, hair flying over my shoulders. My breathing sharp, hot tears prickling at my eyes.

"No, no, Lorraine." She suddenly speaks as she reaches out towards me. I shrink away from her touch. "I...I..." She's stammering. And I have no idea what to say either.

"Too much to drink" I whisper. "God, I'm sorry Sian"

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...I mean, I'm not-"

"I should go" I murmur.

"No-"

"I'll see you tomorrow" I move away, and she's biting down on her bottom lip. I can't turn away fast enough. My eyes trained down, already heavy with hot tears. Tears that I won't let her see. Tears that I can't let her see.

"Lorraine, for god's sake at least let me call you a cab!" She calls after me. I don't look at her.

"I'm fine" I shrug over my shoulder. Already there's several meters of thick night air between us. My voice sounds oddly muffled. By tears? Because I think I might be crying, but can't feel a damn thing. Numb. Oh god Lorraine, pull yourself together.

And I'm crossing my arms across my chest. And I pull my Cavalli jacket closer around my body, sighing. It's so cold I can see my breath smoking in front of my face. I can feel the freezing

And I toss my hair over my shoulders and stop my daemons from consuming me whole.


End file.
